Sherlock Holmes and the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
by CA Hawkins
Summary: BOOK ONE. Sherlock Holmes attends Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This covers Sherlock's first to third year at Hogwarts and John's fourth to sixth year. It is from 1988 to 1990. NAME CHANGED. WAS PREVIOUSLY "SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE".
1. (1988) On the Hogwarts Express

.

 _ **SUMMARY:  
On the first of September in 1988, a family of four arrives at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at ten o'clock in the morning.**_

 **—oOo** **—**

"Don't be an idiot," Mycroft immediately warns Sherlock when they reach the wall between platforms nine and ten.

Looking at the four members of the family, they may just seem like another rich family, but that's not entirely true. The mother and father of this richly dressed family are a Lady and a Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Holmes which is one of the oldest and wealthiest pure-blooded wizarding families in Britain—not because they aimed to be that way, but they simply are.

"Stop it, Mikey," Lady Holmes scolds her eldest son who, in turn, grumbles at the horrid nickname, "it is my youngest son's first day of school and I will hear no bickering whatsoever."

"Just an extra precaution," Mycroft insists, glaring at Sherlock in the process.

"Listen to your mother, Mycroft," Lord Holmes warns in his usual cheery voice.

Mycroft huffs in annoyance at having both parents against him whilst Sherlock grins smugly at him.

All four of them proceed to walk through the wall instead of the usual run which most wizards do. Both Lord and Lady had a hard time adjusting the first two years with Mycroft ever since he insisted that running towards the wall is not exactly a necessity, and it would be wiser to simply walk through it as to not take too much attention if something was blocking the wall.

Mycroft also pretended that he didn't hear Sherlock comment that Mycroft simply did not want to run because he was fat. Mycroft was fairly convinced that Sherlock was an evil little four-year old at the time.

They have always been an hour earlier than most since both parents would rather not have their few moments with their son in the middle of the crowd of noisy wizards and witches.

"Do you have everything you need?" Lady Holmes asks Sherlock for the nth time.

"You've asked me that several times already," he grumbles in reply.

"I know. I know... Just an extra precaution, as Mikey said," she says, grinning at a frowning Mycroft.

"Off to Hogwarts, then," Lord Holmes says with a rather sad smile.

"Dear goodness, you're not going to start crying, are you?" Mycroft grumbles at that.

"You asked us that on _your_ first day to Hogwarts," Lord Holmes says with a grin, trying to hide the forming tears of pride in his eyes.

"Didn't stop them from crying, though," Sherlock comments at that. Mycroft huffs in amusement at their overly emotional parents.

Lady Holmes immediately loses all composure and grabs Sherlock towards him to hug him tightly.

"My youngest son is starting school. Oh, how quickly time has passed!" she cries as she practically squeezes Sherlock to death.

Sherlock doesn't seem to be able to move and so simply stands there with a distressed look on his face—practically asking someone to help him get away from this monstrosity he calls Emotional Parents.

"You said that when I turned seventeen _and_ when I turned eighteen," Mycroft comments.

"One day, Mycroft, you'll understand what it feels like to see your children all grown-up," Lady Holmes says after finally pulling herself away from Sherlock.

Sherlock laughs at the horrified look on Mycroft's face at the small suggestive nudge from their mother.

"Must be horrible to have the weight of the Holmes family lineage resting on your shoulders, Mycroft," Sherlock whispers whilst their parents fuss over Sherlock's trunks which currently look like muggle luggage. They didn't want to look too distinguishable in front of the muggles in King's Cross Station.

"When they're disappointed at my refusal to get married, the weight of the lineage will rest upon _your_ shoulders," Mycroft replies.

Sherlock frowns. "Guess the Holmes lineage will die out, then."

"Unless Uncle Rudy decided to marry and have a child of his blood with a woman instead of cross-dressing, then, yes, the Holmes lineage _will_ die out."

"All set then, dear," Lady Holmes says going towards the two brothers and hugging the youngest of the two once more. "I'm going to miss you—especially since you insisted on staying at Hogwarts over the holidays," she says the last part bitterly.

"I wanted to see how Christmas is at Hogwarts," he defends himself. In all honesty, he's getting sick of his house.

Lady Holmes sighs. "Alright, then." She, then, proceeds to talk to Mycroft about something.

Sherlock walks towards the train in excitement, looking at it in bewilderment with his hands in his pockets, before he notices that his father was walking towards him. Lord Holmes stops, standing beside his youngest son with his own hands in his pockets. They stay there and bond in the silence.

"What are you thinking?" Lord Holmes asks Sherlock quietly.

Sherlock smiles a bit at the question. His father is always curious to what he has always done—most probably because he's always doing something not a lot of children would do and it grabs a curious effect on his father rather than revulsion like most fathers would have had.

"Why wizards wouldn't let muggle technology help them make their lives easier," he replies, looking at the magnificent but old train.

Lord Holmes hums at his brilliant son's wise questions. "It's because wizards were not treated well by muggles in the Dark Ages, and it bled until the modern ages."

"But this isn't caused by fear," Sherlock replies, gesturing at the train in the process, "this is caused by superiority over the ages. The fear made muggles and wizard-kind separate a millennium ago, and over the years, wizards grew a rather large head and insisted they were better than everyone."

"Then there's your answer," his father tells him.

Sherlock blinks a few times before looking up at his father with a small smile and he got a small and similar smile in return.

Lord Holmes places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder before squeezing it a bit. Sherlock got the message—his father's going to miss him and though he wouldn't tell anyone else, he would miss his father as well because his father was the sanest in the family and always knew how to help him deal with his frustrations with the _normal_ world.

He looks over to where Mycroft and his mother is standing. His eyes snap towards Mycroft and with a sigh, Mycroft stops his mother from ranting and finally walks over towards Sherlock. Sherlock has deduced that his mother is going to make Mycroft say goodbye to Sherlock just as she had made Sherlock say goodbye to Mycroft when Mycroft was the one boarding the train.

"Better check on your mum, then," Lord Holmes says, going towards his mother. Sherlock shakes his head at his parents' obvious tactic of getting him and Mycroft express their non-existent brotherly affection towards each other.

"Ten months of a Sherlock-less manor," Mycroft simply says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You'll barely be in the manor."

"Yes, working in the Ministry will prove to be... odious."

"You only think it's odious because you're not yet on top of the food chain," Sherlock replies with another roll of his eyes.

"I can only imagine the strain of having to work for idiots," Mycroft replies and shakes his head. "You'll understand how it feels—to study under the authority of other idiots. Remember to put your head _down_ , brother of mine. I don't want to hear you get expelled. I would be saddened to know that I will have to deal with you sooner than I anticipated."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm just glad I never have to go to Hogwarts with _you_ , dear _brother_."

"If we ever receive a Hogwarts letter because of you—"

"I will be sure to avoid the Great Hall when a Howler from one of you arrives," Sherlock replies, walking away from his brother.

Sherlock walks inside the last compartment of the train and looks out of the window to see his parents waving at him goodbye and his brother giving him a brief nod before they all walk out of the platform wall of nine and three-quarters.

He sighs, leans back on his seat, grabbing his Chemistry book, and starts reading. He has to agree to his mother's idea to wear the uniform earlier so as to not go through the hassle of changing later.

After a few short moments of reading, he hears his compartment door open to see Mike Stamford, a Fourth Year Hufflepuff whom he had met a few times at St. Mungo's Hospital.

" _Sherlock_!" Mike exclaims in surprise. "I didn't know you'd be here!"

"It's my first day," he explains.

"Ahhh, I see. You wouldn't mind if I sit here for a while, would you? I'm trying to hide from someone," Mike asks and Sherlock shakes his head. He could tune out Mike's voice anyway. "Been a while since I last saw you—not going into any trouble now, are you?"

Sherlock sighs at the memory of Mike, standing beside his father whilst the latter helps mend a complicated amount of wounds and hexes on his arms and legs from a bully. Healer Stamford was kind enough not to inform his family to what had happened. Sherlock wasn't a complete idiot and he had managed to convince the healer that his parents were not available in the country.

"Excited to meet new friends then?" Mike asks.

Sherlock grumbles. "You've met me. I must be a difficult person to find a friendship for."

"I'm not so sure that's true," Mike says. Sherlock simply hums in reply.

After a few more moments of reading, Mike looks out of the compartment door and tells Sherlock, "Well, I better head off to see if—" Sherlock glances at him and Mike immediately knows that he doesn't need to continue talking for surely, Sherlock already knows that he's trying to find a rather... attractive girl from Gryffindor—"It was nice to see you again, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods at him once before sighing in relief when Mike left the compartment. He really doesn't want to talk to anyone at the moment. He could have ignored Mike altogether but the man had tolerated him for a while and this slight amount of manners is his way of getting back to him.

 **—oOo—**

After half an hour with Mike looking around the compartment to talk to a girl but failing, he notices someone familiar passing by, dragging a trunk behind him, looking around for empty compartments.

"John! John Watson!" he yells, running towards him. John winces but turns around at his name to see Mike who is hurrying towards him with a smile. "Stamford—" Mike reaches a hand towards John for him to shake—"Mike Stamford... We were on a boat together on our first day at Hogwarts."

John nods profusely. "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." He takes Mike's hand and shakes it. "Hello, hi."

Mike grins and gestures to himself. "Yeah, I know. I got fat!"

John says, "No," in a rather unconvinced tone.

"We haven't talked much since you were sorted in Gryffindor."

"Yes, yes, I know," John says, nodding.

"So, how are you?"

"Fine. Fine. Good. You?"

"Not much. Although, that Potion assignment is proving to be a more pain on my side than possible," Mike replies. John chuckles. "No, seriously, what have you been up to down at the lion's den? Any story to tell?"

"No."

"Any tale? Come on. Gryffindors have a reputation, you know."

"What reputation?"

"That they always go on some adventure or another with their friends. There must have been some story there," Mike says with a grin.

Grumbling and snapping a bit, John gives him a false smile and says, "Come on—who'd want _me_ for a _regular_ friend?" To John's surprise, Mike chuckles thoughtfully. "What?" he asks.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?" John asks.

"A small first year I first met at the hospital. He was reading in silence this morning when I came by—probably because he seemed pretty sure no one's going to like him... poor lad..." [1]

"Well, since there's not much people around at the moment, it wouldn't hurt to see this poor bloke, then, would it? You know first years..."

"Bright young things like we used to be," Mike agrees. "God, I hate them." Both he and John chuckle. "Concerning this first year, you don't know this kid yet," Mike says, "perhaps you wouldn't actually want him as a... _regular_ friend." [1]

"Why?" John asks, surprised at the Hufflepuff's reluctance. "What is there against him?" [1] They both start to walk away from the compartment where they were in as Mike leads them to the last compartment on the train.

"Oh, I didn't say there was anything _against_ him. He is a little strange in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches in both muggle and wizard studies. As far as I know, he is a decent fellow enough." [1]

"A muggle-born wizard, I suppose?" John asks.

"No—as far as I know, this kid is a pureblood," Mike replies.

John stops for a moment at the word ' _pureblood_ ' since nowadays, all things pureblood and all things that can be associated with all things muggle do not go well together. Then again, both he and Mike _are_ half-bloods, and he can always trust Mike's choice of acquaintances... He just hopes this kid isn't a pureblood-elitist git like others. Voldemort's disappearance is still a raw thing for everyone—including the Death Eaters. Then again, Mike _did_ say that this first year studies some muggle branches as well. He's probably not all bad.

"So... a pureblood studying muggle stuff? Isn't that odd? Did you ask him why?"

"No; he is not a kid that is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him." [1]

"Well, now, I'd really like to meet him," John says. "If I'd wanted a friend, I'd rather a kid of studious and quiet habits. I'm not strong enough to stand too much noise or excitement the entire day. I had enough from Gryffindor to last me for the remainder of my natural existence." [1]

Mike laughs quietly at that.

When they reach the last compartment, John sees an eleven-year old with dark curly hair reading a Chemistry book. He seemed to have found a rather _comfortable_ position in having to put his legs up and his head hanging on the edge of the seat with the book hiding his face. His eyebrows rise up at the chemistry book which is too advanced—even for a muggle student. John looks at the smug grin on Mike's face.

"Back again so soon, Mike?" Sherlock asks, not looking up from the book. Mike sits on the seat in front of Sherlock and motions John to sit beside him.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike tells Sherlock.

"You're in Gryffindor, I presume," Sherlock says when he glances at John.

"Oh, you," John starts, looking at Mike, "you told him about me?"

"Not a word," Mike says.

"Really, Mike?" Sherlock asks, ignoring John. "Playing _mutual friends_ , too, now, are we?"

"Who said anything about friends?" John asks.

" _I_ did," Sherlock replies, standing up and closing his book. He grabs his school robe and stuffs his book in one of its pockets which John believes has an extensive charm on. "Told Mike earlier that I must be a difficult person to find a friend for. Now, here he is after half an hour roaming around the train with an old friend, clearly a Gryffindor much needing a silent moment from his den. Wasn't that difficult a leap," he says, whilst he wears his school robe on top of his uniform.

"How _did_ you know I'm a Gryffindor?" John asks, looking at his muggle clothing. Nothing could have said that he was a Gryffindor.

Sherlock ignores his question. "Got my eye on a nice little spot in the school grounds. No one would be excruciatingly noisy enough to be there. I'll lead you there tomorrow evening after classes. Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my lab equipment near my school books."

With that, Sherlock moves towards the door before John stops him.

"Is that it?" John asks the eleven-year old.

"Is that what?" Sherlock turns back from the door. Mike simply finds the eleven-year old a bit adorable trying to look intimidating.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a spot to hang."

"Problem?"

John smiles in disbelief, glancing at Mike to ask for help, but Mike—the _git_ —just continues to smile as he looks at Sherlock. John looks back at the kid.

"We know nothing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your _name_."

"I know you're a Gryffindor and that you were muggle-raised but not a muggleborn. I know you have a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's a starting alcoholic like your father was—as well as careless; but more likely because he recently walked out on his wife... and I know that your father played a part in the war which is making you think of becoming a healer as well as an auror—quite ambitious, I'm afraid... That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John looks down in thought at the thought of having a kid know too much about him. Perhaps the kid is a natural legilimens—he's read about them before—but he wasn't thinking about most of what the kid had mentioned. Far from it, to be honest. Who the _hell_ is this kid? Maybe a seer?

Sherlock turns and walks towards the door again, opening it and going through, but then turns a bit back into the room to say, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and no, I am not a legilimens." He click-winks at John, then looks round at Mike. "Save my compartment."

When the door slams shut behind Sherlock, John turns and looks at Mike in disbelief. Mike smiles and nods in answer.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

 **—oOo—**

When the train starts, Mike has already left the compartment to meet up with a girl, apparently, and he is starting to believe that that Sherlock kid had been his imagination. That is until, the door opens once more and the very kid enters the compartment again with a heavy sigh, flopping on the seat in front of him in exhaustion.

"Hello," Sherlock says a bit muffled since his face is buried on the seat.

"Holmes," John greets, his hand raising on instinct. He mentally berates himself since Sherlock's face is still buried on the seat.

"Sherlock, please," the eleven-year old says, managing to shake his hand despite not seeing him.

The two boys sit in silence for a long time whilst Sherlock keeps his head buried on the seat. John looks out the window but kept stealing nervous glances at the eleven-year old. Sensing the nerves of the older boy, Sherlock finally lifts his head and sits right side up on the seat in front of the blonde.

"Okay, you've got questions," Sherlock says, not a question.

" _Are_ you a legilimens?" John asks.

"I already told you I am not. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"I'm an eleven-year old starting school at Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry," Sherlock replies.

John looks at the kid for a few moments, trying to sense if this kid is trying to piss him off by stating the obvious... or perhaps not.

"No, I mean, tell me something about yourself."

"I didn't know I was signing up for an interview," Sherlock replies. John chuckles but Sherlock answers, "If you're really interested, I'm a pureblood from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Holmes. Don't worry. I don't care much for titles anyway and think of it as something idiotic that some wizards are still stuck with the old mindset of an eroding zircon crystal." [2]

"Oookaay... Oh, I have a typical question: What house do you think you'll be in?" John asks.

Sherlock grumbles. "Everyone keeps asking me that question."

"Being a pureblood, I guess you'd go where your parents were, wouldn't you?" John asks. The kid is probably a Slytherin. No, John doesn't believe that every Slytherin is evil, but most pure-bloods end up in Slytherin for some reason.

"There is no telling, really," Sherlock replies.

"Oh?" John asks curiously.

Sherlock chuckles. "My father was in Hufflepuff. My mother was in Gryffindor. My older brother, on the other hand, was in Slytherin."

John raises a brow at that. "Maybe, you'll be in Ravenclaw," he says, remembering the boy's Chemistry book earlier, "so all four Holmeses are in all four houses."

Sherlock's lip twitches upward a bit. "Perhaps."

"Ravenclaw... hmm..." He clears his throat. "Speaking of knowledge, h-how did you know all those things about me?"

Sherlock inwardly chuckles, knowing that this was what John had been thinking of this whole time. "By using the Science of Deduction," Sherlock says with a glint in his eyes which John noticed.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I could identify a designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb," Sherlock replies.

"Really?" John asks with a snort in disbelief.

"Yes; and I can read your upbringing from your face and your trunk; your brother's starting habits from your jacket; and your father's drinking habits on your pocket watch."

"How? No wizard becomes an amateur."

Sherlock gives him a look. "Earlier, I said 'You're a Gryffindor and that you were muggle-raised but not a muggleborn'. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how _did_ you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your walk, the way you hold yourself, says Gryffindor. Your clothes are an obvious display of muggle fashion, as well as your trunk—or your _luggage_ , to be more precise—which is old. You don't really need to buy a second-hand luggage because though you might not be rich, you're not exactly poor either. The luggage was obviously owned by someone in the family. So, that shows that you are, at least, muggle-raised."

"Why would you think I'm not a muggleborn?"

"I see scars on the side of your face that can only come from _Sectumsempra_ and it seems to be nearing a decade old. Obviously, you were attacked by a wizard—most likely by a Death Eater if my calculations are correct. Anyway, the way the scar was placed, obviously, a shield was put up on most of your body but that particular side of your face was not so lucky. Fortunately enough, no one would notice it unless they were looking for it, or if they were me."

John lets Sherlock's self-praise go for a while.

"You said my father was part of the war—not my mother."

"Initials on the luggage which says P.N. instead of a W. The mother would have been the only one in the family who would have changed their surname at some point in their life... She owned the luggage. She was the muggle. There is also the fact that you refer to your father in the past tense and that you have his pocket watch..." John quietens a bit at that. "Then there's your brother." [3]

"Hmm?"

"Your jacket. It's expensive, Haversack, hammered press studs, but you came from a thrifty family—evident from the luggage—you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Ripped. Not one, many over time. The student in front of me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy; you know it already."

"The embroidery," John says.

On the inside of John's black cotton jacket, down to the lower part in small writing, which is partially showed from how John is sitting, there is a small embroidery saying 'To Harry Watson. From Clara xxx.'

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old jacket. Not your father, this is a young man's jacket. _Could_ be a cousin, but you're a Gryffindor who'd rather coop up in a silent compartment. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the jacket says serious relationship." [4]

John watches the kid in front of him with growing interest.

"She must have given it to him recently—this model's only six months old. Relationship in trouble then—six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do—sentiment, but _no_ , he wanted rid of it. _He_ left _her_. He gave the jacket to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for friends—social problems, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with _him_. Maybe you liked his girlfriend; maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiles. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Jacket buttons: tiny little scruff marks around the edge of it. Every time, he buttons it but his hands are shaking. Some were reattached multiple times. You never see those marks on a sober man's possession; never see a drunk's without them."

"You mentioned my father was an alcoholic."

"All from the pocket watch..." John takes his pocket watch from his jacket and places it to Sherlock's outstretched hand. Sherlock, then, investigates it. "Your father was a bit careless. You can observe the lower part of that watch-case. You notice that is not only dented in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as keys or coins, in the same pocket. Surely, it is not a great feat to assume that a man who treats a traditional gift from one father to the next so cavalierly must be a careless man." [1]

John nods in understanding.

"Now, look at the inner plate. It contains the keyhole. Look at the thousands of scratches all round the hole—marks where the key has slipped. What sober man's key could have scored those grooves? Like I said, you never see a drunk's without them." [1]

Sherlock hands John the pocket watch once more.

"There you go, you see—you were right."

" _I_ was right? Right about _what_?"

"No wizard becomes an amateur."

Sherlock looks out of the window, and bites his lip nervously as he waits for another blow to the face, or an insult, or _something_.

"That... was amazing."

Sherlock freezes, blinks a few more minutes. For once, he doesn't have a quick reply to retort. He looks at John briefly who is looking out of the window himself. He decides to look at the window as well.

"Do you think so?" he manages to ask.

"Of course, it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!"

Sherlock smiles briefly at John, who grins and looks out of the window again, chuckling softly. After a few moments, John thinks about why someone would tell a kid to piss off. Shaking his head, he continues to think that perhaps meeting Sherlock Holmes was not so horrible after all.

 **—oOo—**

[1] Dialogue—slightly altered to fit the story—from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes series books—specifically "A Study in Scarlet."

[2] There is an ancient crystal called a zircon... It's like 4.4 billion years old and it's said, by scientist, to be the earliest confirmed piece of Earth's crust which is awesome. Zircon crystals take a really long time and it actually survives erosion... so basically, it's kinda like a really old immortal crystal.

So basically, Sherlock is complaining that some wizards are still stuck with ancient traditions. Sherlock is such a nerd. I totally do not mention zircon crystals in my normal life *breathes heavily*

[3] Martin Freeman's mother's name is Philomena Freeman (née Norris).

[4] From John's blog 2010, John mentions that Harry is 36 years old. Assuming Harry Watson's birthday is after January 29, the year of her birth would be in 1973, a year before John's. LMAO.


	2. (1988) The Sorting Hat's Decision

.

 _ **SUMMARY:**_  
 _ **The youngest member of the Holmes lineage finally gets sorted in the evening of September 1st before the Start-of-Term feast.**_

 _NOTES:_  
 _There will be some slight references about Merlin based on BBC's Merlin but it won't be essential to the story._

 **—oOo—**

To John's surprise after the complete and utter silence from Sherlock—which is a Godsend from all the noise in his family and from Gryffindor—Sherlock stands up, closing the book with a snap, and tells him, "Well, I will probably or probably not be seeing you, John."

"What—?" John starts but Sherlock cuts him off.

"We are nearing the station," Sherlock tells him, "a few minutes, at most."

Just then, a voice echoes through the train. "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train. It will be taken to the school separately."

John raises a brow at Sherlock who smirks in reply.

"Then," John says, standing up himself after a while, "I hope you'll get sorted in Gryffindor."

Sherlock snorts at that. "We both know I _won't_ be in Gryffindor."

John laughs in answer. "Yes, well, just trying to part with good words."

Sherlock opens the door to the compartment to look around the corridor which is packed with a crowd. He grimaces at the sight of the eager students. "Well, that's _typical._ "

"And you're not exactly _typical_ are you?" John asks from behind him, looking at the crowded corridor as well before sitting back inside, not wanting to be a part of the crowd at the moment.

"No," Sherlock replies, sitting back on his seat as well with a huff.

"Nervous?" John asks.

"Why would I be nervous?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, this _is_ your first day of school at Hogwarts—where you will be sorted to your house—Ravenclaw, was it?" Sherlock nods at that. "You must be a little bit nervous—meeting new people, going to a new place. It's all both nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time," he says nostalgically.

"That's what _you_ felt on _your_ first day, wasn't it?" Sherlock asks.

John chuckles. "Obvious, was it?"

Sherlock chuckles. "A bit."

"...so, you're not nervous?"

"No," Sherlock says and John nods. "One of the advantages of being born in the Wizarding World and having an older brother is that you get to be more aware of what happens at Hogwarts than others do."

"Excited, then?"

"No."

"Why not? If you're not excited to _be_ in Hogwarts, you might as well be excited to _see_ Hogwarts. It's the most beautiful place I have ever seen in my entire life. Pictures will not give it justice," John says.

"I've already been to Hogwarts," Sherlock says nonchalantly.

" _What_?!" John asks.

"No one _knew_ I've been to Hogwarts, but I have," Sherlock says with a smile.

"How?"

The train finally slows down and stops at that and Sherlock jumps up from the seat to stand up. John stands up as well with a sigh.

"I'll see you, then, Sherlock. You'll have to follow—"

"—the half-giant, yes," Sherlock says.

"Hey! Hagrid is—"

"—officially a half-giant. He has some giant blood in him. It's official. I've seen his documents from the Ministry. Don't ask how. Giants are supposed to be around twenty to twenty-five feet and Rubeus Hagrid is barely ten feet. I am not entirely sure why the Wizarding World would even consider him a half-giant. There are some cases in the Muggle World of Gigantism and he would look normal in the eyes of the muggles—rare but not necessary for deception. Wizards, if they know of his ancestry, would treat him like a dark magical beast but in the Muggle World, he's just a tall human being with a probable pituitary gland tumour." Sherlock shakes his head. "Wizards are so... _stupid_ _._ "

With that, Sherlock leaves the compartment with a flabbergasted John and goes towards the finally non-crowded corridor and to the door that leads to a tiny, dark platform.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" Hagrid keeps yelling as he leaves with the crowd of first years. "C'mon, follow me! Anymore firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years, follow me!"

"Sherlock!" someone yells from behind him and Sherlock sees John waving at him before walking to the other side of the platform where he knows the Thestrals pulling the stagecoaches will be for the higher years.

Giving John a nod, he follows from the back of the crowd to quietly observe everyone. They follow Hagrid down a steep narrow path where it was dark on either side of it.

Sherlock was thankful for the silence since everyone seems to be either too nervous to talk, or the environment itself seems to want silence and so none are brave enough to break it.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid's booming voice says from in front—making Sherlock wince at the sudden sound in the silence, "jus' round this bend here."

"Ooooh!" everyone else in front says.

The narrow path opens up to the edge of a great black lake. On the other side of the Great Lake, on top of the high mountain, is the castle of Hogwarts. Sherlock quietly smirks at the memory of his break-in six years ago.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid calls out, pointing to a number of boats by the shore of the lake.

Not wanting to ask someone if he could sit with them, Sherlock immediately spots an empty boat and sits in front.

"Hello," someone says behind him, "Sebastian Wilkes." [1]

A hand materialises beside Sherlock and he rolls his eyes before shaking his hand. He turns around to look at a clean-cut pure-blood with a fake smile which he probably learned from his wealthy father who works at the Ministry but occasionally looks over at Gringotts.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replies reluctantly.

"What kind of a name is _Sherlock_?" Sebastian asks with a quirked brow.

"Ask my parents," Sherlock replies with a grumble before looking back at what's in front of him. It is better to talk to _no one_ at this moment.

"Everyone in?" Hagrid, who has a boat to himself, shouts. "Right then. FORWARD!"

The boats all move at once and glides across the lake. Everyone, like a few moments before, is silent to stare at the great castle once more. Sherlock admits that though he has already seen the castle, John is right. It is one of the most beautiful pieces citadels he has ever seen.

"Heads down!" Hagrid yells when they reach the cliff.

Everyone bends their heads as all the boats carry them through a curtain of ivy that is hiding a wide opening in the face of the cliff. They go through a dark tunnel and someone seems to have been an idiot for even daring to try to make 'ghost' noises which made a girl shriek in fright. Everyone winces at the echoed shriek.

Sherlock is rather thankful Hagrid did not attempt to reprimand whoever had done the deed since everyone would be deaf if he did.

Finally, they reach an underground harbour where they all get out of their boats. Hagrid, then, leads them to a passageway in the rock and brings them to a place with smooth damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walk up a flight of steps and crowds around the huge oak front door.

"Everyone here?" Hagrid asks, looking at the crowd of first years once more before knocking at the castle door three times.

The door opens immediately and a tall black-haired witch in emerald-green robes greets them. Sherlock immediately knows that this woman is Professor Minerva McGonagall. He has seen her sternly reprimand students when he had been here six years ago.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid says.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

With that, she leads everyone from the door and to a small empty chamber off the hall. Sherlock can already hear the hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right. The crowd in front of Sherlock draws in together closer than usual, looking around nervously.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall says. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly. Now, in a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates but before you can take your seats in the Great Hall, you must be sorted into your Houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."

She pauses for a few seconds.

"The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, now while you are here, your House will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn you points. Any rule-breaking, and you will _lose_ points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points is awarded the House cup. The Sorting Ceremony will begin momentarily. I shall return when we are ready for you," she says and looks at all of them sternly. "Please wait quietly and I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

With that, she leaves the chamber. Sherlock has never been more thrilled to meet a professor such as her.

A small amount of chaos occurs when the ghosts decided to join in the crowd.

"I cannot begin to tell you how much I desire to pass on from walking amongst the living in order to avoid him," a ghost wearing a ruff and tights say, "and I'm _already dead_."

"Give the poltergeist a chance," a ghost who seems to be a fat monk says.

"A chance? Haven't we—oh goodness, what are you all doing here?" the first ghost says in surprise.

No one answers until, "We are awaiting the signal from Professor McGonagall in order for us to get sorted," Sherlock answers. Every single head turns at the sound of his voice and he rolls his eyes at the chain reaction.

"Ahhh, new students!" the Fat Friar says with a smile. "I hope to see you—"

"—in Hufflepuff," Sherlock cuts in with a nod.

"Hufflepuff, indeed," the monk replies.

"Come now," Professor McGonagall says sharply, suddenly appearing. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

With a nod at _him_ , the ghosts move away and through the wall. Sherlock wishes he, too, can walk through walls. It would give him less time to reach a distance.

"Now, form a line, and follow me," Professor McGonagall orders.

Sherlock maintains standing at the back. Unfortunately, he walks beside a rather talkative student who is extremely too nervous about the whole thing.

"Shut up," he hisses at the panicked student and he receives silence in return... after a few amounts of panicked mutterings.

The Great Hall opens—finally—and Sherlock looks around in interest. He may have broken in at Hogwarts but he had only been able to break in to the library without getting caught. He was rather unfortunate not to have completely explored the whole castle since he had been too busy studying in the school library and hiding from far too many eyes.

He looks at the thousands and thousands of candles that are floating in midair over four long tables where the rest of the students are sitting. The tables are laid with glittering golden plates and goblets which Sherlock finds to be pretentious and unnecessary. Although, the thought of these plates being as old as the castle had crossed his mind. He begins to question why no one is excited as him to be in a place that is filled with relics.

At the top of the hall is another long table where the teaches are sitting. Professor McGonagall leads them there so they stop in a line facing the other students with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them look like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight.

Sherlock looks over at the Gryffindor table where he sees John grinning at him. He rolls his eyes at that which only made John grin wider.

The ghosts shine as the glide around the hall. Sherlock looks up to see the black ceiling filled with stars. He wonders whose idea was it to bewitch the ceiling to look like the sky.

Sherlock watches as Professor McGonagall places a four-legged stool in front of them. On top of it, she places a pointed wizard's hat which he believes to be Gryffindor's. He smirks at the idea that some students believe that the wizard is always Prince-like or King-like. When in reality, he had worn a stupid old hat.

The hat sings and applause echoes around the hall after it. After that, whispers go around beside him from the other first years, exclaiming with relief that they only had to put on the hat to get sorted and not undergo an extreme test or what-not.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," Professor McGonagall says. "Bole, Lucian!" [2]

A boy walks away from the line, puts on the hat, and sits down.

"Slytherin," Sherlock whispers to himself. Beside him, the nervous kid who he had told to shut up, looks at him questioningly.

A few seconds later, "SLYTHERIN!" the hat shouts.

Sherlock watches as the Slytherins cheer loudly but regally at the same time. He chuckles at how these people favour reputation and they are not at all disappointing. Although, some look like they're trying too hard.

A few more were sorted—some were sorted immediately, whilst some took a little while to be sorted. Although, he seems to have found it a good time deducing the houses of his fellow first years before the hat does. Though, he has the advantage of seeing the other students and using their physical appearances and states to deduce their houses.

"Holmes, Sherlock," Professor McGonagall says. He thanks the universe that his name was not listed as William Holmes or else, he would destroy the whole castle with a flick of his hand. No, he is not kidding.

He sees John smiling at him before the hat falls down on his eyes and he puts it up so he can have a complete view of the hall whilst he is sitting on the rather tall stool. He does want to see John whilst he is being sorted just so he can smugly smile at him when he goes to his house.

"I'm having difficulty sorting your thoughts, young one," a voice in his ear says. "You're a natural Occlumens. Put your barricade down so I can sort you into your house."

 _My thoughts are perfectly sorted and roomed, as well as stored. I do not want you to wander around mindlessly._

"A guarded student, I see," the hat says.

 _Merely organised._ Sherlock, then, lets the Occlumency shields around his mind palace drop and lets the hat in his mind.

"Hmm," says the small voice, "difficult... extremely difficult."

 _I pride myself with my intelligence. It is easy to sort me in Ravenclaw._

"But you don't, do you?" the voice argues. "You always hate being not as smart as you are right now. You don't pride yourself with intelligence. You use that as a defence mechanism to hide how much you lack it."

 _I desire to be sorted—not psychoanalysed._

"Very well," the hat answers, and then silence goes through his head. The sorting hat doesn't say anything and he fidgets on where he is sitting at the long silence.

 _Where on Earth are you? It's been five minutes. I am already undergoing a hatstall._ [3] _Don't make this longer than necessary._

"It is difficult to sort someone who doesn't pride themselves with anything."

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on his seat. Everyone still stares at him and he swallows at their gaze.

"You have plenty of courage, a great mind, incredible amount of talent, of course, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself. Interesting. Very interesting, indeed... Now, where to put you?"

Silence once more. It has been eight minutes since he is sitting on the seat. Everyone is whispering and looking at him in question. Even Professor McGonagall is checking if he is awake. He looks behind him to see his fellow first years are already sitting on the ground, waiting for him to get sorted. He rolls his eyes at the sorting hat.

 _This is taking ages and I just want to sit in a house_.

"A student with no preference," the hat says once more, "is not an easy student to be faced with, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Your mind is an easy access now that your defence shields are down but you yourself are incredibly guarded with something more than Occlumency."

Silence once more. To his boredom, Sherlock reaches out to the hat and looks at what he had seen through the years. He reaches out to the hat to see what he is planning to do. Unfortunately, nothing seems to be popping out except confusion and concentration. The hat truly is unsure where to place him. With a sigh, he reaches out to see what all four founders had really been instead and stores all he had seen in his Mind Palace for future use.

"A natural and master legilimens as well, are you? No one has attempted to read _my_ thoughts for a change."

 _Just sort me for goodness' sake. Put me in Ravenclaw._

"But it is not the best house for you."

 _Yes, it is._

"I can put you in Slytherin, too."

 _No._

"Why not? You're a master manipulator by using your knowledge to your advantage—a mysterious student as well, I see. There's a strong amount of ambition and determination in you—especially to finish a job you had made for yourself... Goal-oriented, that's what you are... You're sly and ambitious—the very essence of Salazar Slytherin himself. You may argue that you do not care for reputation but you also don't want people thinking you're less than what they seem to believe you are. You want people to know you're the smartest one in the room. You _always_ think before you act. You gather and strengthen your connections. Connections are essential to Slytherins—"

 _Yes, but I don't plan on achieving greatness._

"Yes, you do."

 _I don't._

"If you don't want to be in Slytherin, I can perfectly place you in Gryffindor as well."

 _No. Me? A Gryffindor? Don't be absurd._

"There's an incredible amount of bravery in you, young one. There's also the sense of adventure. You seek danger because you thrive in it. You hate being bored, don't you? You want to keep moving. You want to keep acting. You're quick to defend those you trust, don't you? A fiery defence in case of a threat. You don't admit it but you do... You're a magnet of danger and exploration. You are not afraid of the consequence—in fact, you expect it and _that_ doesn't stop you from acting."

 _But I am not impulsive._

"A Gryffindor doesn't just act on impulsion."

 _Can you be any quicker? I've been sitting here for more than ten minutes already._

"I told you, Mr. Holmes. You are a case I have never seen before, and I have sorted Merlin to his insistence." [4]

 _Is that supposed to impress me?_

"You should be impressed with yourself. There are chances that you can be greater than the Immortal One." [4]

 _Stop saying nonsense and sort me._

"Hufflepuff is good, too."

 _WILL YOU STOP EXPLAINING ALL FOUR HOUSES TO ME?!_

The hat ignores him. "You have a great amount of loyalty to that Gryffindor boy, John Watson, despite just meeting him this morning."

 _I don't TRUST anyone._

"You may not trust him now—or ever, for that matter, but you are loyal to the person who had treated you without revulsion."

 _Just shut up and place me in Ravenclaw. It's been more than a quarter of an hour, for goodness' sake._

The professors behind him start whispering to each other as well. He sees all of them eye him warily.

"You care for those who care about you."

 _I don't CARE_.

"Stop lying to a hat who can see ALL your thoughts."

 _Don't make me shield my Mind Palace again._

"It will take the sorting even longer."

Sherlock swears under his breath and thankfully, no one sees him do so.

"You're fiercely loyal with your work, and to what you believe in. You don't admit so but you're intensely just—to search for justice needed to those who are not facing it. It doesn't settle you down. It bothers you when those who are required to face justice are out and about... like that Carl Powers case, wasn't it?"

 _Don't start._

The hat chuckles at that. Sherlock starts to chuckle as well at the thought that a hat is chuckling.

"I am not just _a_ hat, you know."

 _Keep telling yourself that._

"Horribly honest, too, you are... secretly thoughtful, though not entirely kind but secretly considerate... and though you don't want to say it out loud, you work better with a friend. You are the light and you seek a conductor of light."

 _JUST SORT ME NOW!_

"You can be in all four houses, and not be in all four houses. I don't know where to place you."

 _In Ravenclaw. Place me in Ravenclaw._

"Better be GRYFFINCLAWPUFFERIN!"

He freezes on the seat and so does the whole hall. The hat is removed from his head by Professor McGonagall who is looking at him in question, and he gives a questioning look in return. He turns to look at the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, whose eyes are twinkling in delight and thought. All of the students around him whisper to each other and looking at him with slight fear and extreme wonder.

Professor McGonagall walks over to the headmaster and some of the professors practically huddle together to talk about what just happened.

Growling under his breath, he jumps from the stool and walks over to the professors to grab the hat from Professor McGonagall's hands before placing it on him once more and paces around with his arms crossed.

 _I am trying to grab a low profile and now, you're making me into the talk of the week. You're giving me a reputation I don't seek._

"I am right in my choice to sort you in all four houses," the hat says.

 _I just want to be in Ravenclaw._

"You are in RAVENCLAW... as well as SLYTHERIN, GRYFFINDOR, and HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouts all four houses, making everyone whisper about him once more.

Sherlock growls at that.

 _I told you to stop it. My talents as a Hufflepuff can also be talents and artistic creativity for Ravenclaw. I am not brave. I seek danger because of my curiosity, not my sense of adventure. I use my mind before I act because it would lead me to better results—not because thinking before acting is a cautious act. I am not loyal to my beliefs; I just know I am right and would want to tell others what_ is _right. I expand my knowledge and delete those I believe are not necessary. I want answers to my questions. My mind and I are one. Without it, I am nothing._

"You say all those things and yet you lie as well."

 _Goddamn it, just yell Ravenclaw and be done with it._

"SLYTHERIN, GRYFFINDOR, HUFFLEPUFF, _PRIMARILY_ RAVENCLAW."

 _Not good enough._

"It's the only thing you can ask from me."

He removes the hat from his head and he frowns at it before practically slamming it down to the stool before he tells the professors.

"I'll be in _Ravenclaw_ ," he insists. He crosses his arms and walks over to the Ravenclaw table who seems to be filled with people who are slightly wary of him.

He looks at John who is looking at him with wide eyes, before giving him a small smile and a laugh. Sherlock shakes his head.

The year is not starting out the way he wants it to.

 **—oOo—**

[1] Sebastian Wilkes was with Sherlock Holmes in uni—and seems to be "buddies" with him in uni. So there's a possibility that he was in the same year as Sherlock or close to it. Sherlock is familiar with the man since he had called him "Seb" at one point in the episode.

[2] Lucian Bole was a Seventh Year Slytherin in Goblet of Fire. He was sorted in 1988. He was also the Beater who hit Angelina Johnson because he "mistakenly" took her as a Bludger.

[3] A Hatstall refers to a sorting which takes longer than five minutes.

[4] Pottermore says that Merlin was sorted in Slytherin but that is paradoxical. Merlin was born around the fifth century (around 460 AD). From what I have searched, it said:

"However Merlin, when still a boy, was brought to the court of King Vortigern near the end of his reign. According to the account in Geoffrey of Monmouth. the earliest surviving account, this would be after the campaign that the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle dates to 473. See . So one might imagine Merlin to have been born around 460."

Hogwarts, on the other hand, was founded around the tenth century (around 990 AD).

So, how could Merlin be sorted in Slytherin if he was born centuries before Hogwarts was founded?

Merlin's other names include the Welsh version of Merlin Ambrosius which is Myrddin Emrys. Myrddin (Merlin) means Hawk, whilst Emrys (Ambrosius) mean Immortal.

In BBC's Merlin, his Druid name is Emrys (immortal). In the show, he is walking amongst us today and I am inclined to believe as such (just, okay, guys, let me believe that huhu)...

...and so I would say that he was around when Hogwarts was being founded. He was probably the mentor of the four founders himself, but that's a story for another time.

I would also like to think that in his curiosity, after the founders had thought of the hat, he had placed the hat on himself for fun and he was sorted into Slytherin because of his ambition of having peace between magical and non-magical people.

So, yeah.


	3. (1988) First Day at Hogwarts

.

 ** _SUMMARY:_  
 _A boy in an unusual position assesses his situation. Meanwhile, others remain bewildered by the odd addition to the school._  
**

 _ **NOTES:  
** **I will be speeding this up a bit so you'll only ever see bits and pieces of Sherlock's first three years at Hogwarts. I plan to, at least, have his first three years in less than ten chapters, if possible. The next chapters after that will focus on Sherlock and the Philosopher's Stone set in 1991.**_

 _ **I checked the calendar and September 2, 1988 is on a Friday, so indeed, they do have classes on that day.**_

 _ **I based Sherlock's schedule with the Gryffindor timetable in  
harrypotter . wikia wiki / First_year**_

 **—oOo—**

Whilst everyone else follows their fellow schoolmates to leave the Great Hall, Sherlock stands by at the back, watching all of them push each other just to get out of the room. One would believe someone is chasing them. He rolls his eyes at that. He stays at the edge of the Ravenclaw table, leaning back on it with his arms crossed, watching the scene in front of him. The plethora of information swimming out from everyone is quite... _informative._

"You certainly made a good first impression," a voice says beside him. He's not surprised that John would talk to him right after the Start-of-Term feast.

Sherlock snorts. "I'm still a Ravenclaw."

John nods. "...And Slytherin, and Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff. See? I told you you'd make it in Gryffindor! Still, it's a bit rare to be sorted in all four houses. I don't think _anyone_ 's been sorted in all four houses before."

"That's where you're wrong," Sherlock says, still staring at the number of people pushing their way out of the Great Hall.

"Oh?" John asks.

"There had been many before me who had been sorted in all four houses, or most of them..."

"...and how long ago did this occur?" John asks bemusedly.

" _Very_ long," Sherlock answers with a defeated sigh.

"Well, you're going to earn a big name in the future. I can see it," John tells him with an encouraging smile.

Sherlock grumbles. "And that is _precisely_ what I don't want happening."

"Why not?" he asks confusedly.

"Because it's annoying."

John laughs. "Only you would think fame is annoying."

"Well, you wouldn't know, would you? Since you practically get _recharged_ every time someone acknowledges you."

"I don't do that!" Sherlock raises a brow at John. "Alright, maybe a little, but this isn't like yours. I don't doubt this will reach the papers tomorrow."

Sherlock grumbles once more. "Secrets are never safe within Wizarding Walls. I'm surprised Dumbledore's side had not fallen under Voldemort's from how transparent secrets are these days." Sherlock observes John's reaction from the name of the dark lord. He smiles to himself with the fact that John didn't even flinch. "There is a high amount of chance that someone could be spying on us at this very moment—not for political or war-strategical purposes, but for the-latest-gossips-I-found-will-win-me-the-front-page-of-the-Daily-Prophet purposes."

John nods. "Who knows? Maybe there are bugs around these place... Oh, and what I meant by bugs, I meant—"

"—by concealed microphones concealed somewhere in an area used for surveillance—or more specifically, to record and monitor conversations held within the area of the bugs' ranges," Sherlock says with a sigh. "I told you: I'm not as ignorant as one might think."

John pauses. "You weren't kidding when you said you studied a lot about Muggle Science."

"My parents aren't exactly ones who care much about status or reputation but they are keeping up enough appearances to keep my brother and I away from the eyes of those who idiotically judge others based on what they study. These _blood status reputations_ are stupendously stupid— _seriously_. I cannot stress how much these things annoy me for their stupidity. Although, I am rather curious as to how wizards would think if they ever find out my mother had written a book called 'The Dynamics of Combustion' which is all about Mathematics." Sherlock sniggers.

"Wait, your mum's a mathematician?" John asks in awe.

"And a magician," Sherlock says. John laughs at that.

"Holmes," a stern voice which John knows belongs to Professor Snape says behind them. Both John and Sherlock turn around to see Professor McGonagall standing beside the headmaster, the Potions Master, the Herbology Professor, and the Charms Professor.

"Heads of each houses," John whispers. "I should probably go to the Gryffindor Tower, then." John grimaces. "It would be endless chattering all day about how summer had been."

With that, John gives Sherlock a pat on the shoulder before walking out of the Great Hall, which they had both just now noticed had already been empty except for them and the professors.

Sherlock moves from where he was leaning on the table and walks towards the professors, eyeing them all to deduce everything he can about them. All are very interesting:

 _His_ head of house (which is obviously Ravenclaw) seems to have some Goblin ancestry but the percentage of his Goblin blood and Human blood cannot be determined by his mere observations alone—though he suspects Professor Filius Flitwick is more human than goblin. This is a man with a love for music. Sherlock smiles—his violin suits well with Ravenclaw, thank goodness.

The professor has the build and stance of a Duelling Champion. Did he read something about his achievement? Eh, he wouldn't remember anyway. It wasn't important at the time.

Now, Professor McGonagall sure is an interesting witch, indeed. A half-blood (Sherlock rolls his eyes at the term) and an incredibly talented one. He has reasons to believe that Professor McGonagall is fit enough to be a Ravenclaw—judging from the glint in her eye. She can also see her lost love with a muggle. She worked in the Ministry of Magic (Sherlock rolls his eyes at the reminder of his brother), judging from her measures of sternness and disciplinary courses. It's where she gets her aura—her experience as a part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Professor Sprout and McGonagall had been friends for a long time—most likely had even attended Hogwarts together—or had overlapped years in their time when they are both attending Hogwarts and had befriended each other by then. Professor Sprout seems to be a legitimate and professional Herbologist. Sherlock would need to spent some time with her if he wants to perfect Potion-making.

Speaking of Potion-making, Professor Severus Snape who is another half-blood, so it seems. This man has grief in his eyes which hides under a mask of coldness. Sherlock can sense the dark aura of a tattoo on the man's left arm—a previous Death-Eater, then. This man lost much and has no intention of murder of the people in Dumbledore's side. Interesting. From the shared looks between the Potions-master and the Headmaster, he has reasons to believe the Headmaster trusts this man with his life. This man may be an ally of Dumbledore's but he is not an entirely good man either.

The Headmaster, in turn, is hiding something dark. No. He was not always a nice man. There is something dark underneath that warmth in his eyes. This man is manipulative and seems to be acting like God in the Wizarding World. He is a good asset in seeing the bigger picture for the sake of the greater good, but there are times and Sherlock is certain that not all of the headmaster's choice were thought through.

"Professors," he finally greets them.

"Holmes, dear, we must talk about your rather interesting sorting," Professor Sprout says.

"Or more precisely, it is either: you are here to talk to me about which amongst the houses you are all currently heading I will be staying in, or you are also here to talk about how the arrangements will be for me considering that I am sorted in all four houses. Let me make it easier for you all, dear professors: I will be in Ravenclaw," he calmly tells.

Professor Flitwick says a low, "Yes," and even slightly pumps a fist at Sherlock's decision. Sherlock smiles amusedly at how the heads of houses had probably fought over him—despite his reluctance to fame, it does amuse him that these four incredibly talented wizards would try to claim him under their wing. He feels just as smug whenever his parents agree with him instead of with Mycroft.

"Why?" Professor McGonagall asks him, slightly disappointed with his choice. "No offence to Professor Flitwick here, but I would want to know why you wouldn't join the lions?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "It is not entirely because of the people nor what the house signifies which factored why I chose what I chose. My answer is simply because: my whole family had already placed their names and _ghosts_ under the other three houses and I, for one, would want my own house. A Holmes, my father, had been a Hufflepuff. My mother, although not a Holmes at the time, had been in Gryffindor. My ever charming brother, Mycroft—"

All the professors noted the sarcasm and slight resentment in Sherlock's voice at Mycroft's name and the professors, besides Professor Snape, are confused why the Master Slytherin's little brother would be so hateful to such a responsible student.

"—had been a Slytherin. I believe he was the Head Boy last year?" Professor Snape nods at that. "Also, I believe I would have stronger patience amongst Ravenclaws than any of the other houses since they would leave me alone if I only hold a book in my hand." Professor Flitwick chuckles at that. Ravenclaws do respect another Ravenclaw's reading-time and time for isolation. "Also, the hat _did_ say I am primarily a Ravenclaw."

"Well, that's settled then," Professor Dumbledore finally says, "since our young one here has chosen his house, then we will have to let him be in the house he wants. Although, Sherlock, my boy, since you are still—in all technicality—in all four houses, you will be regarded as a member of each of the four houses. You will have the same privileges as any of the students in all four houses." [1]

None of the professors saw the mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes at the mention of his _privilege._

"As for house points, it will be linked to the house you choose to be in a particular day. Therefore, I would advise you to wear something that signifies the house you choose for the day, Sherlock, so as to not confuse your professors. Then again, I believe you would consider yourself to be a complete Ravenclaw, isn't that right?" Sherlock nods. "Then everything is settled, then. I'm going to have to inform the other professors of this arrangement. Professors, please follow me."

The headmaster, then, moves to walk out of the Great Hall through a door that only professors use. The other professors follow him but Professor Flitwick hangs back for a moment and turns to look at him.

"Well, Mister Holmes, the Ravenclaw house is honoured to have you with us," Professor Flitwick says, raising a hand towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please... and I am honoured to be in the House of the Wise," Sherlock says with a nod, shaking Professor Flitwick's hand. "Now, I believe you have a meeting with the other professors, professor?"

"Ahhh, yes... Off to the common room for you, now, then," he says. Professor Flitwick walks towards the door before turning around to add something but Sherlock beats him.

"Yes, professor, I know the Ravenclaw Tower is on the west side of the castle at the top of the spiral staircase—which I believe to be around the fifth floor?"

Professor Flitwick smiles. "You researched on the house, then?" he asks.

"I was quite sure of my house, professor," Sherlock says with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "but the sorting hat was insistent."

"I'm looking forward with having you as a student, Sherlock," the professor says.

"And you as a professor," Sherlock says, nodding, before turning around and going towards the door to go to the Ravenclaw Common Room.

Sherlock climbs up a tight, dizzying staircase which he would think of a solution for the students. He may not be as fat and lazy as Mycroft but he sure doesn't want to continue the torture of having to walk up the inhumane amount of steps on the staircase. Finally, he reaches the door at the top of the tower where he knows the Ravenclaw Common Room is. He guesses the other students had already entered since he is alone out here.

The door has no handle and no keyhole. There is nothing but a plain expanse of aged wood and a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. Sherlock knocks once and in the silence, it sounds as if it is a cannon blast because of the echoes bouncing on the wall which causes Sherlock to wince at the sound. The cylindrical shape of the tower did not help with its booming effect.

At once, the beak of the eagle opens but instead of a bird's call, a soft musical voice says, "Is it possible to create something out of nothing?" it asks. [2]

Expecting a riddle to answer and without hesitation, Sherlock answers, "There is always something, and therefore, nothing does not exist."

"Well reasoned," the voice of the eagle-shaped knocker says.

The door swings open.

The Ravenclaw common room is a wide circular and airy room. There are graceful arched windows punctuated on the walls, which were hung with blue and bronze silks which Sherlock knows are the house colours of Ravenclaw House. By day, Sherlock believes that they would have a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. The ceiling is domed and painted with countless of starts which are echoed in the midnight-blue carpet. There are tables, chairs, and bookcases around the room in blue and bronze as well, complimenting the colours of the room.

In a niche opposite the door is a tall statue of white marble which Sherlock believes to be Rowena Ravenclaw since there is a delicate-looking circlet which had been reproduced in marble on top of her head—The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw. There are tiny words etched on the diadem. Sherlock looks at it closely to see:

 ** _Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure._**

"Hello," someone says behind Sherlock and so he turns to see a girl with long blonde curly hair smiling at him, "are you a first year?"

"You know who I am," Sherlock tells her, noticing how her question isn't really a question but more on a social conversation-starter.

The girl looks at him, thinking he is rather conceited. "Yes, well, you are the longest hatstall in Hogwarts history."

"There are chances of previous hatstalls not being recorded in the Hogwarts history books," Sherlock replies in an annoyed tone, not really liking how his reputation is going.

"Even so, even the older students said you are the longest hatstall in Hogwarts for over a century, at least. There had been no records of almost half an hour on the stool," the girl tells him. "What's more unusual is the fact that you are sorted in all four houses."

Sherlock sighs. "I am aware of what happened, yes..."

"Why are you in Ravenclaw, then?" she asks.

"I chose to."

"You chose to?"

"I can be in whatever house I want for the day but I decided to be mostly in Ravenclaw."

The girl nods. "Why's that?"

Sherlock ignores this as he looks at her briefly. "You are in your second year here, I presume?"

The girl blinks. "How did you know?"

Sherlock sighs. "Well, you look almost the same age as first years but you're _obviously_ not—considering that you asked me if I am a first year instead of asking me if I am a first year _as well_. What's more prominent is the fact that you were not called for the sorting earlier. This rules out first year. Your face eliminates fourth year to seventh year—and no, I am not basing it on stereotypical appearances, so don't even bother arguing about that. I have studied Basic Human Anatomy, of course. So this leaves out third year and second year," Sherlock explains rapidly.

"So how did you know I was a second year instead of a third year?" she asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Basic body language."

The girl's brows furrow in confusion. "How?"

"When you were telling me how the older students had told you that I had the longest hatstall in history, your body had moved to gesture the said _older students_ who happen to be from Third Year. How did I know they're Third Year students? One of them is holding a book— _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_ ," Sherlock explains. "It's as plain as day."

The girl looks at the people she had talked to earlier to see that, indeed, one of them is casually holding the book but the title cannot be seen.

"You can't see the title from how he is holding the book," she argues.

"It is _obvious_." The girl pushes her anger down at the condescending tone, although for Sherlock, he's just frustrated that no one can see the world the way he does. "The design of the book shows what it is. It looks like our own Standard Book of Spells except that in the Grade 3 book, it's colour is Cerulean, instead of seaweed green which is the Grade 2 book, or brown which is the Grade 1 book... See?" he says.

"He could be the only third year in that group," she argues.

"I doubt it. Look at how closely he is talking to them." They watch as the third year they were observing laughs loudly and hits another guy on the shoulder who, then, hits him back, and they start to roll around the ground to hit each other. The girl with them starts to berate the other two angrily but with a fond smile on her face. Sherlock will never understand friendships. "That isn't acquaintanceship—it's familiar friendship. The balance of probability of students having a close relationship with their fellow housemates in the same year is incredibly high."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I think Ravenclaw best fits you," the girl says, although she is frowning a little bit.

"The hat would argue with you," Sherlock replies. "Now, back to the topic at hand, you are a second year and therefore have the freshest memory of being a first year. So, how much do we really learn in the first year?"

"Sadly, fewer than one expects," she answers, "since first years need time to master their wands and control their magic, it takes longer for first years to usually get the spell right. It takes a longer time to learn the basic theories behind the spells to get them right."

"By theories, you mean—?" Sherlock asks.

"Just brief explanations on how to do the wand movements as well as the incantation," the girl answers.

"Do they explain how the spells themselves work and how to extract that from your desire to make that happen?" Sherlock asks and the girl shakes her head, looking at him oddly. "Do the professors, at least, teach why the wand movements and incantations are a significant part of the spell-casting?"

"Those kinds of teaching are usually done in Potions and Herbology."

"They're not exactly spell-casting, are they?" Sherlock asks in an annoyed tone.

"No," the girl simply replies.

Sherlock nods before walking away without another glance, to preoccupied with Hogwarts's education system to hear the girl shouting that her name is Penelope Clearwater [3] and that it's rude of Sherlock to quickly walk away when he is done talking to her.

Sherlock ponders over the information he had gained and sighs.

No, Hogwarts is definitely not how he imagined it. Mycroft was right. He would have to endure this for a _long_ time.

 **—oOo—**

Sherlock sits alone on the Ravenclaw table. By alone, it means that he is sitting with several spaces beside him since the other Ravenclaws are rather keen to avoid him as much as possible—mostly in fear of what he is "capable of" or whatever they have in their heads today.

He had already received his timetable from Professor Flitwick since the headmaster thought it wiser that he should interact more with the other houses since he is a part of them as well. They gave him a rather separate timetable wherein he would be in classes with the other four houses—not always with the Ravenclaws.

With a sigh, he grabs his book once more before putting his nose down on it.

"Hey, Sherlock!" Sherlock hears John's voice say behind him, slightly flinching at the sudden hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock turns to look at him. "John," he greets back.

John looks at the big space Sherlock is occupying and the crowded Ravenclaws on one side of the table. John frowns before looking back at Sherlock with a smile.

"Well, we're having breakfast at the Gryffindor table, you want to join? I mean, you are a Gryffindor," John says with a smile.

"Fine," Sherlock says, shrugging and secretly thanking John for getting him away from these students who seem to be waiting for him to attack them. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 _Funny,_ Sherlock thinks, _I am usually the one being attacked and not the other way around._

His mother would not be amused with his dark humour.

Several members of the Gryffindor House keeps bothering Sherlock with endless questions about his power and what he can do. They also asked questions about his arrangement with the houses since he is sorted in all four of them. Sherlock ignores them all—well, some would call it ignoring. John would call it as Sherlock just being too busy with his reading. Unfortunately, he can also see that this is earning Sherlock a bad reputation.

"Sherlock?" he whispers beside him but Sherlock doesn't seem to hear him. "Sherlock?" he asks again a bit louder but no response. "Sherlock?" he asks once more nudging his shoulder a bit.

Sherlock hums in response and cocks an eyebrow but his eyes are still stuck on the pages of his book. John notices that he cannot see the title—a glamour, perhaps? to hide what it is?

"People are talking to you," John whispers at him.

Sherlock hums in response—telling John that he isn't really listening to him. John sighs and smiles at the other Gryffindors and tells them that Sherlock is a bit tired from talking with the other professors.

The other students seem to believe this since they leave Sherlock alone but still look their way at the strange student from time to time. _That's not good_ , John thinks for himself.

A few more moments, owls enter the Great Hall and circle above the tables. The students shriek in fear when animals which are definitely not an owls enter the Great Hall. The professors stand up in alarm to calm the students as well as investigate its arrival.

The said winged animals both circle around the Gryffindor table before diving down towards their direction. The larger of the two sits on the empty space ( _even the Gryffindors are avoiding him the same way as the Ravenclaws_ , John notices) on the other side of Sherlock. The smaller one lands harshly on Sherlock's book which falls from Sherlock's hands and to the ground, before setting on the table right in front of Sherlock.

"Roäc!" Sherlock says with an unamused tone on his voice, looking at the thrown book before picking it up from the ground with a warning glare at the animal. Sherlock blinks for a moment before shrieking, "Roäc! Thorondor!" [4] in excitement, putting his book down on the table beside the smaller animal, places an arm around the animal he addressed as _Thorondor_ , and pets the animal he addressed as _Roäc_ with his other hand.

"Sherlock?" John asks. Sherlock hums in question again, looking at the smaller animal in front of him right in the eyes—as if communicating to it. "Sherlock, those are not owls." _Roäc_ , then, perches on top of Sherlock's shoulder.

"Obvious, John," Sherlock says, finally looking at John.

"Who are they, then?" John asks in curiosity, looking at the raven and eagle.

"Roäc, here," Sherlock says, stroking the raven on his shoulder once more, "is sadly a raven who can talk in occasion, and reminds me of the fact when he is in a temper. Thorondor is a white-tailed eagle. Thankfully, he can't talk like Roäc but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a way not to." [5] The eagle squawks at this, and he and Sherlock stare at each other in the eye for a while before Sherlock shakes his head with a sighed chuckle.

"...So how'd you... where did you...?" John starts.

The Gryffindor in front of them comments, "I can understand the raven... but I've never heard of eagles being sold in Diagon Alley."

The eagle squawks at this and the raven squawks at the eagle in response. Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes.

"What is it?" John asks.

"Thorondor is quite protective of Roäc and doesn't like it when people believe Roäc was so ordinary as to be sold like a pet in Diagon Alley," Sherlock says with a sigh.

The people listening in the conversation look at the Sherlock oddly. John decides not to ask how Sherlock knows what his pet— _er_ —animals are saying. So, instead, he asks, "Where _did_ you find them?" John asks.

Sherlock fondly looks at the two winged animals. "I found them when I was out... exploring. Roäc came first. I got lost in the woods when I was five and he guided me out. He was also injured at the time so I let him live with me. Thorondor, I met a few years ago. He was shot by a man and so I also let him live with me."

"And what did your parents think about that?"

Sherlock chuckles. "I convinced them... eventually..." Sherlock shrugs before looking at the eagle. "So, what do you have for me?" he asks Thorondor who has a copy of the Daily Prophet on one talon, and a letter from his brother on the other.

Sherlock glances at the Daily Prophet, already knowing why his brother had bothered to send him a letter so early in the year.

 **NEW MERLIN ARRIVES:**  
 **Boy sorted in all houses**

"WHAT!?" Sherlock scowls at the Daily Prophet in his hands. The Raven, Roäc, places a wing around Sherlock's head as if to comfort him. The Eagle, Thorondor, nudges Sherlock's shoulder with his head as his way to comfort the boy. John stares at the odd trio beside him. "I _cannot_ believe this."

Sherlock Holmes, the youngest member  
of the Ancient and Most Noble House of  
Holmes, has shown promising powers up  
ahead in the world of magic after being  
sorted in all four houses of Hogwarts  
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
Witnesses—which would be all students  
and professors of Hogwarts—had heard  
the sorting hat's cry of  
"Gryffinclawpufferin" which is, in fact, a  
mixed-up word of all four houses.

After the hat was removed from young  
Holmes's head, he had grabbed it back  
from Professor Minerva McGonagall, 53,  
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, put it  
on, and the sorting hat had cried out all  
four names of the founders of the school  
individually, confirming and firmly  
declaring that the young Holmes is  
sorted in all four houses.

Could it be that we have found a student  
more powerful than the great Merlin  
himself? Or is this boy a new dark lord  
about to rise?

Sherlock glares at the paper and doesn't bother reading the other parts of the story—which he is sure would contain something about his hidden life in the Holmes Manor, as well as how other children had not liked him and was the complete target of punches and kicks by the other kids—or about anything that would factor to his rising as a dark lord. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"New Merlin, eh?" John says beside him amusedly. Sherlock groans in annoyance.

"Don't start," Sherlock warns before opening the letter from his brother.

 _What did I say about  
keeping your head down?_  
 _M_

Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. He knows his brother wouldn't be impressed but annoyed. No good things occur when one earns a large reputation in an instant. Being called as a new Merlin might not be a good sign.

 **—oOo—**

"Yes, Holmes?" the professor asks.

"Sir, may I have a table to myself?"

The professor narrows his eyes at this. The Gryffindors on the other side of the room whisper about how Sherlock is an arrogant prick who thinks he's above them all since he doesn't think that they're good enough for his level. The Slytherins on his other side whisper as well and they are thinking along the same lines as the Gryffindors. Sherlock mentally rolls his eyes to both of these houses claiming that they are nothing alike.

"I gave specific instructions to pair up, Holmes. You would do well in following my instructions," the Potions Master replies.

"And it would be for the benefit of the whole class if I was alone on a table in your class," Sherlock replies back.

Professor Snape crosses his arms, holding his robes as he does so, which would make it wrap all around the professor—making him look like a muggle's stereotypical physical representation of a vampire.

"And why is that so, Holmes?" the professor asks in a warning tone, saying Sherlock's name as if it is a small curse.

"Trust me, professor. You do not want to know," Sherlock says with a serious and cool face (which places the other Slytherins to shame) and in a brave manner (which places the other Gryffindors to shame).

Professor and student continue to glare at each other before the professor sighs.

"So be it," Professor Snape says. "You will be on the table directly in front of me so I can assess your work _every second_ ," he says with a small sneer.

Sherlock smirks. "Looking forward to it, professor," he says, taking the professor's challenge.

Professor Snape nods in acknowledgement of the acceptance of the challenge, giving Sherlock one more look before talking about today's lesson.

After two hours, Sherlock finally _truly_ and _completely_ understands why Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs feel lucky they do not have to be in the same class as Gryffindors and Slytherins in Double Potions.

 **—oOo—**

"Yes, Holmes?" the professor asks.

"Professor, why do you continue to teach even if you are a ghost?"

Some of the students gasp at his rather sudden question. Some of the Hufflepuffs whisper at how insensitive he is to ask such a horrible unasked question. Some of the Slytherins behind him debate over whether or not Professor Binns even knew if he was a ghost.

Sherlock turns around at the Slytherins. "Of course, he knows he is a ghost. He just went through the wall as if it is a daily occurrence. Dead or not—one would realise one is dead if you are passing through walls." Sherlock turns back around to face the professor. "So, sir, why do you continue to teach?"

"What else can I do?" Professor Binns asks.

"Is the life after death really _that_ boring?" Sherlock asks.

Another gasp from the students at how insensitive he is about Professor Binns's death. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 **—oOo—**

"Sherlock!" Sherlock turns around at his name to see John running after him.

"John," he greets back coolly.

"How was your first day?" John asks.

"I had the misfortune to spend Double Potions with the Slytherins and the Gryffindors." Sherlock grimaces.

"Ooh, that's bloody unfortunate," John comments, grimacing himself at the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor.

"I can show you later that spot I told you about yesterday," Sherlock says.

"What spot?" John asks.

"The spot where we can spend time without being bothered by any of the other students. Now, I think _you_ have Double Potions next?" Sherlock asks. "I believe you're spending it with the Slytherins as well?"

John grimaces before chuckling. "Can't believe we're both unlucky to have Double Potions with Slytherins on the same day... Well, where can I see you after my class?"

"You'll know where I am," Sherlock replies cryptically and walks away before John asks what the hell that means.

 **—oOo—**

"Where the hell were you?" John asks Sherlock who just sat beside him on the Gryffindor table, reading another book.

"I was in the library."

John rolls his eyes. _Of course, you would be_ , he thinks.

"Come on, then. Stop reading and eat your dinner."

"Not hungry."

" _Sherlock_ , you didn't eat breakfast and you only had bread at lunch. You _have_ to _eat_ ," John scolds him. Sherlock ignores him completely.

"I was busy and always will be, and so I eat when it's necessary," Sherlock replies nonchalantly.

"Eating _three meals a day_ is necessary," John scolds him.

"You're not my mother," Sherlock says.

"I might as well be..." Sherlock still doesn't bother to eat after that and John knows that he might not be able to force the younger student to do so. "So, where is this _spot_ of yours?" John asks.

"Many spots, actually."

"Which are?"

"A not-hidden but unnoticed area near the Great Lake. It's fascinating how humans ignore those that are in the corner of their eyes. There's a particular room on the seventh floor of the castle. There's the Astronomy Tower, but that's boring. Also, there's this good spot in the Forbidden Forest—"

"It's dangerous in the Forbidden Forest," John points out.

"That makes it fun... especially at night," Sherlock says with a manic grin.

"Now, now, Sherlock, I'm the older one here and so, the more responsible one, and we can't go there because it would be dangerous since there are creatures there that will not hesitate to kill you," John tries—he really did.

"I don't think that will stop you now, won't it?" Sherlock asks with a raised brow.

John hates the fact that this kid can read him like an open book.

"Not now, though," Sherlock says, looking down at his book.

"Why?" John asks.

"It's too early."

 **—oOo—**

Leaving the Ravenclaw Common Room, Sherlock looks down the spiral staircase and decides that he will not be wasting his precious time climbing down it. He walks over the railing and proceeds to jump over it. As he falls, he waves his hand [6] and says "Arresto Momentum" in a mere whisper, since Mycroft told him that shouting spells is not really necessary. He has yet to master nonverbal wandless magic. Sherlock, then, falls down slowly, as if floating down, and thankfully lands on the floor without hurting himself. Smiling to himself, he walks out of the tower and to the school corridors.

Grinning evilly, he practically runs towards the Gryffindor Common Room and tells the portrait the password after being reprimanded for waking her up in the middle of the night. Sherlock notices that she doesn't seem surprised that someone had just arrived late—a sense of adventure is, of course, common amongst Gryffindors.

Looking around, he manages to find a particular dormitory and walks over to the blonde sleeping soundly.

"John," he says, shaking the Fourth Year awake. Before John yells out, Sherlock places a hand on his mouth to silence him, and sighs in relief when the other four Gryffindors in John's dormitory did not even stir. "Shhh, it's me. Come on, let's go."

"What are you doing here?" John asks in a tired whisper. "Go back to your common room; you'll get detention for walking around the castle."

"This is technically still my common room."

"Then go to bloody sleep," John says, turning over his bed, but doesn't seem to be falling back asleep any sooner.

"Fine, I'll be going to the Forbidden Forest alone, then," Sherlock says casually, walking out of the room.

For a moment, John stays still before muttering, "Damn it," before grabbing a cloak and running after Sherlock.

—oOo—

All things I said about the four heads of each houses came from their brief biographies in Pottermore or from the wiki page of Harry Potter.

[1] Basically, he is still a member of all the houses, and will be treated with the house he chooses to be in on a day because he can switch claims on any houses at any time. Since he really has eyes for Ravenclaw, it was Sherlock's choice for being in Ravenclaw and so he ~might~ permanently stay in Ravenclaw and just be in that house alone.  
( ͡°‿ʖ ͡°)

[2] I really need help thinking of more Ravenclaw Eagle Knocker riddles. Most riddles only have one word answers instead of long answers that are not straight-forward with the question.

[3] Penelope Clearwater was the girlfriend of Percy Weasley in the first book in Harry Potter. In the first book, she was a fifth-year prefect. She also started Hogwarts in 1987 so she'd be a second year when Sherlock is sorted.

[4] Roäc is the Leader of the Great Ravens of the Lonely Mountain, mentioned in "The Hobbit". Thorondor, on the other hand, was the King of Eagles in the First Age, mentioned in "Lord of the Rings". Both are books written by JRR Tolkein.

[5] I was trying to find a reddish owl so it could match Redbeard, the Irish Setter which Sherlock had as a child, but I was unsuccessful to find a common reddish owl that could match Sherlock's preference, and that are fairly common in Europe.

Ravens are incredibly intelligent animals. Their black colour would be well-liked by Sherlock since he often wears black (his coat) and sometimes, in fics, Sherlock is often referred as raven-haired, although he is technically a brunet in the show.

Ravens can imitate human speech, which shows how much intelligent they really are. I think Sherlock would want an incredibly intelligent familiar. No offence but owls aren't really the smartest birds out there.

"Common Ravens aren't as social as crows; you tend to see them alone or in pairs except at food sources like landfills. Ravens are confident, inquisitive birds that strut around or occasionally bound forward with light, two-footed hops. In flight they are buoyant and graceful, interspersing soaring, gliding, and slow flaps."

This is basically Sherlock.

Also, about the Ravens of the Tower of London:

"Their presence is traditionally believed to protect the Crown and the tower; a superstition holds that "if the Tower of London ravens are lost or fly away, the Crown will fall and Britain with it"."

I'd say it's a metaphor for Sherlock. Without him, England would fall—or, at least, the key as to why England had not fallen into ruins.

The white-tailed eagles averagely has the largest wingspan amongst all eagles, and I think Sherlock would like that because his eagle is cool or something like that. White-tailed eagles also have no predators for itself so they're pretty strong.

"Adults are typically solitary or in pairs." which can be a metaphor for Sherlock. "Pair-bond is strictly monogamous and life-long." I believe this can also be parallel to Sherlock's friendship with John. It isn't strictly a monogamous friendship but they really do only rely on each other most of the time. "They are more tenacious." Sherlock can be extremely tenacious when provoked.

Sherlock really wants to be Ravenclaw, guys. I think he was planning on buying an eagle owl (and I was planning on giving him the Eurasian Eagle-Owl) but I think he would think that he can manipulate the rules to getting into his favour.

[6] Yes, Sherlock can do wandless magic. Further explanation will be held in later chapters.  
( ͡°‿ʖ ͡°)


	4. (1988) Adventures with Sherlock Holmes

.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _Stories about the duo's families are brought to the light. A certain Fourth Year shows that he is more than what he seems._**

 _NOTES:_  
 _This is the last chapter that shows Sherlock's First Year and John's Fourth Year at Hogwarts._

 **—oOo—**

John has never felt more alive than he had ever been in his life before he met that First Year, Sherlock, two days ago in the Hogwarts Express. They have just returned from another outing in the Forbidden Forest where they had met a number of Acromantulas. It was more exciting than yesterday when they had walked into nothing at all.

After looking at each other once after the swarm had decided they would feast on two students, both Sherlock and John had run for their lives with both of them laughing as they do so. John would not have thought he would be acting as such since they have the threat of death on their heads and they were _laughing_.

Once he had thought about it, he thought it both inappropriate and appropriate but he was with _Sherlock_ and it explains everything. _This is going to be a sort of routine, isn't this_ _?_ he thinks to himself.

They arrive at the castle with John casting a Disillusionment Charm—which Sherlock insisted he would master and strengthen with the use of his maximum strength (and he did)—on them. Unfortunately, they stumble upon a problem that they did not expect.

They are backed into a corner by Professor Severus Snape—of course, the Potions Master himself is not aware that he is currently making it impossible for two students to pass through a corridor since the professor feels suspicious around the area. They cannot walk around the professor since the corridor is narrow enough for three people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

The professor in question is standing in the middle of the corridor and if they dare try to walk around him, they would still be brushing the professor's side. Opening the door behind them and leaving is not an option.

"Reveal yourself," the professor says regally.

John and Sherlock both stop breathing at this point. John feels like his heart is making too much loud noises by thudding too hard across his chest from adrenaline.

The professor seems to have lost his patience and pulls out his wand and starts to cast, " _Homenum—_ " [1]

Quietly sighing to himself, Sherlock raises a finger and swishes it to make something move on the other side of the corridor which catches the attention of the Potions Master and making him run for the false suspect while Sherlock and John run away quietly.

Not for the first time and definitely not much to the surprise of the Fat Lady, John and Sherlock find themselves leaning back to the wall of the empty Gryffindor Common Room, panting like a pair of idiots.

"What... was that...?" John asks.

"Acro... mantulas," Sherlock replies, grinning like an idiot, "and millions... of them..." he breathes excitedly.

"No..." John says, gaining his breath, "the one with Snape..."

"Homenum Revelio?" [1] Sherlock asks, "it is—"

"I know what _Homenum Revelio_ is, Sherlock," John says, "but that's not what I mean."

"Then what _do_ you mean?"

"You... didn't use a wand," John says, looking at Sherlock rather warily.

Sherlock's eyes widen and look down at his hands before taking his wand from his holster. "You might have not seen me use this," Sherlock tries.

John laughs humourlessly. "I know what I saw, Sherlock. I'm not an idiot."

"And what made you think that?" Sherlock retorts, earning him a scowl from John.

"So, are the rumours really wrong, then?" John asks Sherlock.

" _What_ rumours?!" Sherlock hisses.

"That you could be the new Merlin," John says, leading them to the armchairs in the corner of the room.

Sherlock grumbles. "That piece of news only came two days ago, John. News in the Wizarding World may spread out fast but it dies as quick—usually around two weeks to a month. I will never be surprised. The Wizarding World may have magic but this state of living is incredibly _boring_."

With that, Sherlock drops to the couch with a huff, placing his hands in a prayer position underneath his chin. John stays standing up and looking at the first year.

"The Wizarding World is nothing compared to—hold on, I know what you're doing," John says, raising an accusing finger at Sherlock who raises a brow at him in mock innocence. "You're trying to change the subject."

"I am not!" the child insists but John shakes his head.

"When did you learn?" he asks instead.

"Learn what?" Sherlock replies.

"Wandless magic?" John asks.

"Everyone in the Wizarding World is fully capable of doing wandless magic. Do not forget that as children, accidental magic _is_ wandless magic albeit an uncontrolled one. If one concentrates and focuses, one can just as easily perform wandless magic knowingly," Sherlock replies.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but that's not really an answer to my question, though, is it?" John comments, sitting on the armchair near the couch.

Sherlock raises a brow at this but doesn't comment. "I do not remember _learning_ it. I have been doing wandless magic since I could remember. My parents told me I was stubborn as a child and kept summoning things I wanted in my crib. They thought it was accidental magic as a child but it was proven wrong when they witnessed me raise a hand to my blanket across the room and summon it on purpose."

John looks at Sherlock with raised brows. "Does that show how much powerful one is?" he asks curiously.

"It is not more on being _powerful_. It is more on being _knowledgable_... or being _aware_. Accidental magic is fuelled by emotions or deep desires or wants or just from sheer will. I remember channeling my mind to think what I want, why I want it, and throw all my thoughts and _will_ with my magic by searching for my magical core..." Sherlock tells him.

John nods. " That's practical magic," John silently says.

Sherlock sighs. "It isn't. Magic itself is practical. It would be like wanting to punch someone in the face and so you gather your strength to your arm and throwing the punch—and your strength—to your victim's face," he compares.

"So, you mean to say that magic is just strength?" John asks with an almost lost tone in his voice.

Sherlock growls. "This is why I am so _disappointed_ with Hogwarts," he whines, "because they are not teaching magic _properly_. They just make us grab our wands, point at an object, say a spell or incantation, and do it. They do not teach what happens behind it. Wands are used to further channel our magic—to concentrate our magic on one thing."

John nods absently. "A wand is just a booster," he agrees.

"It's just a straw," Sherlock replies and John looks at him oddly. "The wand is where our magic flows through. A wand is a gun but our magic is the bullet. The wand searches for our magical core and sucks parts of it to be used within it."

"Without the wand, there is nothing completely directing one's magic which is why people find it difficult to manage or use wandless magic," John replies.

"Exactly."

"How often do _you_ use wandless magic?" John asks.

"It is what I always use," Sherlock replies. "I do not use wands."

"How about in classes?" John asks.

"Wands drain me because, like I said, it sucks our magic for us to use it in one object—the wand itself—and I am rather used to wandless magic so wand magic is... an unpleasant ordeal for me. I use a fake wand in class but actually use wandless magic. Although, I would have to learn how to keep my magic contained when using a wand if I want to stay away from attention. If anyone finds out about my wandless abilities—"

"—they'll turn you in as the next dark lord," John finishes, nodding.

"I would not be surprised. I was told that Voldemort and I do share some similar physical features," Sherlock replies.

"Who told you that?" John asks.

"My brother," Sherlock answers, rolling his eyes.

"How would he know what the dark lord looked like?"

"He probably saw him himself. Voldemort _did_ target families with high status," Sherlock says with a shrug.

"How did you maintain your status without being classified as Blood Traitors?" John asks cautiously.

Sherlock shrugs. "We kept under the radar—and no, we don't put our heads down but they stay out of trouble as much as possible."

"Not you, though?" John asks amusedly.

"I go through a different kind of trouble."

John laughs at that. "So what about your parents and your brother?"

"Mother and father would often act as if they were indifferent with the muggle-raised, but they are as caring about blood-status and status in general as I am. When they were offered a position in Voldemort's ranks, they flat out refused."

"And they were not killed for it?"

Sherlock smirks but John suspects he doesn't realise that he actually looks proud of his parents. "They weren't. I believe they told Voldemort that being a part of the war would be an incredible hit with their economic status, and that they would rather be away from all the mess—especially since we only have one place to stay in England and being a part of the war would most likely destroy our manor when fightings ensue. I also believed they had mentioned the fact that they would most likely end up dead from their lack of duelling skills and they cannot die yet since they had just had Mycroft by the time and there are no Holmeses alive to continue on the family name and heritage."

"And he accepted that?" John asks.

"My parents had no record of being blood traitors nor where they expressive with their disapproval of blood-status. I told you: they kept under the radar just in case—"

"—just in case it was used against them." Sherlock nods. "So, you're saying that your parents manipulated the most manipulative wizard of all time?"

"Yup," Sherlock says, closing his eyes.

"I see," John says, nodding, finally figuring out how Sherlock could be such an interesting human being... "After that, they were never threatened?" John asks.

"The family was practically forgotten from Voldemort's memory. Even though mother and father had often helped the Order of the Phoenix from the background, they were not suspected with any suspicious activities from both the Light and Dark Side. So, no, they were not threatened by either side..."

John nods, standing up and walking over to the window to peer outside of it. Sherlock opens his eyes and tilts his head slightly towards John.

"What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours."

Sherlock frowns in confusion. "A _friend_?"

"An enemy."

Sherlock relaxes. Calmly, he nods and asks, "Oh, which one?"

John looks at the first year. "Your _arch_ -enemy, according to him, do people _have_ arch-enemies?" he asks.

Sherlock looks towards John and narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?"

Softly, Sherlock answers, "The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. When did you meet him?"

"Just this morning."

"This morning?" Sherlock asks with a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then... Yeah, I went to see about an apprenticeship at the Hospital Wing..."

"How was it?"

John answers absently, sitting back down the armchair. "It's great. She's great."

"Who?"

John looks round at Sherlock. "The job."

"'She'?"

"...It."

 **—oOo** **—**

 **EARLIER TODAY**

Mike Stamford had already informed him days ago that Madame Pomfrey is taking in an apprentice once more for the Hospital Wing. John's brows rose up to his hairline at the news since it was rare for the Matron to ask for apprentices again since she recruited two apprentices two years ago. She rarely takes in apprentices but then again, there is the threat of Voldemort coming back to life one day.

John had lost the opportunity in his second year since he had looked forward to Quidditch and was intimidated about the amount of workload it would have had if he also took in the apprenticeship.

Now, he is fourteen, well-adjusted, and ready.

Mike even reminded him that his occasional help at St. Mungo's would do well to be Madame Pomfrey's apprentice.

"You know about that?" John asked.

"Well, you're under my dad [2], right?" Mike asked.

"He told you about me?"

"He mentioned you being an insistent student asking for a job at St. Mungo's years ago but we hadn't talked much at the time so I was surprised, really."

John shrugs. "I want to be a doctor."

"You mean a healer?" Mike asks.

"No, a _doctor_ , but healer's good, too, I suppose, for now."

In the Hospital Wing, there was a number of students (and some are in higher years than he) applying for the one spot of apprenticeship instead of the usual two. John did not let his confidence die down at his one-of-out-twenty chance of getting the apprenticeship.

To his satisfaction, it was not Mike Stamford who is interviewing him for the first interview for the apprenticeship, but it was Sarah Sawyer, a fellow Fourth Year Gryffindor whom he had not spoken to before. This way, he would take the apprenticeship fair and square and not because he is friends with Mike.

Sarah reads John's printed Curriculum Vitae and looks up at John who is sitting opposite her.

"Just locum work," she tells him.

"No, that's fine."

"You're, um... well, you're a bit over-qualified," she says, looking at the Curriculum Vitae once more.

 **—oOo—**

 **.**

CURRICULUM VITAE

 **J—O—H—N—W—A—T—S—O—N**

Fourth Year  
Gryffindor

 **PROFILE**

A conscientious reliable and hardworking student, pays attention to details, crusader of clinical governance, with excellent interpersonal and time management skills, seeking further training and experience in accident and emergency medicine while working towards a career in healing.

.

 **Educational Qualifications**

Outstanding in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, and Defence Against the Dark Arts and Top of the Class From School Years 1985 To 1988.

Outstanding in Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies and Top of the Class From 1987 To 1988.

 **Wizarding War**

Helped healing the wounded using Intentional Underage Magic and muggle forms of medical treatment. [3]

Protected some people using Intentional Underage Magic and muggle forms of defence.

 **Employment History**

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries — Trainee Healer in Magical Bugs and Diseases — Summer Training (Under Healer Iason O'Hickee) [4]

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries — Trainee Healer in Spell Damange — Summer Training (Under Healer David Stamford) [2]

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries — occasional hand in "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn Ward (Under Hippocrates Smethwyck) [5]

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries — occasional hand in Janus Thickey Ward (Under MIriam Strout) [6]

.

 **SKILLS AND PROFICIENCIES**

Able to recognise and search for immediate and appropriate treatment in a wide range of Medical and Surgical conditions (ones with treatment) including:

Usual Medical Conditions [7]

* Myocardial infarction  
* Acute Coronary Syndrome  
* Deep vein thrombosis  
* Acute asthma attack  
* Severe exacerbation of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease  
* Community and hospital acquired pneumonia  
* Seizures  
* Poisoning / Overdose

Magical Medical Conditions [8]

* Lycanthropy  
* Dragon Pox  
* Scrofungulus  
* Spattergroit  
* Potion Poisoning / Overdose  
* Splinching  
* Obscurus

 **—oOo—**

John smiles. "Er, I could always do with the experience."

"Well, we've got a few patients. Might be a bit mundane for you."

"Er, no; mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works."

Sarah softly replies with, "It says here as a child, you fought in the war."

"And healed the wounded," he adds, smiling at her again.

Sarah looks down. "Anything else you can do?" she asks.

"I learned the clarinet at school before Hogwarts."

"Oh!" Sarah laughs. "Well, I look forward to it."

John laughs once more and she smiles flirtatiously at him.

John finally leaves the Hospital Wing when a heavy weight makes him gasp in surprise and slight pain.

 _John Watson_ , a voice says.

John whips his head around to see an empty corridor. He knows he heard it since he heard it clearly but he is starting to question his sanity when it happens again.

 _Go outside the school, John Watson_ , the voice in his head says again.

"Hello?" John asks out loud.

Confused and curious, he walks out of the Hospital Tower and outside the West Wing. He can see Hagrid's hut and the Dark Forest and nothing else.

 _There is an owl on the tower to your left. Do you see it?_ the voice asks.

With a frown, John takes this as a confirmation that someone is trying to talk inside his mind and tries to reach it.

 _Who's this? Who's speaking?_ John asks in his brain.

 _Do you see the owl, John Watson?_

John looks up at the Gryffindor Tower and sees an owl high up and standing on one of the window sills.

 _Yeah, I see it_ , he replies.

 _Watch_ , the voice says.

The owl which was pointedly looking at him, now flies away.

 _There is another owl on the tower opposite you. Do you see it?_

John looks at the Hospital Tower to see an owl which is also pointedly looking at him.

 _Mmm-hmm_ , he hums in his mind. The owl flies away once more.

 _And finally, at the top of the tower on your right_.

John stares up the Clock Tower to see the third owl which was watching him but now flies away once more.

 _How are you doing this?_ John asks in his mind.

 _Please hold the portkey, John Watson_.

Someone suddenly taps his shoulder from behind. John sees two men and a woman, all wearing professional high-quality black robes that could be the wizarding equivalent to suits, and are looking at him expectantly. One of the two men shows off a magnificent-looking pen and hands it over to John.

 _I_ would _make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you_ , the voice in his head says.

With that, the heavy weight in his head lifts. John looks at the three adults in front of him for a long moment, then decides there isn't much else he can do and so holds on to the pen all three of the adults are now holding on.

After a few seconds, John feels the familiar feeling of a hook somewhere behind the navel pulling him to their destination.

They arrive at an almost empty wide space that he knows is near Hogsmeade. The three adults with John all land gracefully whilst John had almost fallen flat on his face if it wasn't for his good balance earned from Quidditch practice.

A young adult, who looks about eighteen, in even richer and more high-quality robes than the adults who took him, is standing in the centre of the area, leaning on an umbrella nonchalantly as he watches all four of them land and John recovering from the nausea. In front of the man is a straight-backed armless chair facing him. He gestures to it with the point of his umbrella.

"Have a seat, John," the young adult says. John recognises the voice to be the same voice he heard in his mind.

John walks towards him with a calm voice. "You know, I've got an owl." He looks around the abandoned area. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er... you could just owl me... with one of your owls..."

He walks straight past the chair and stops a few paces in front of the young adult.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place... Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down."

The young adult looks at him curiously. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The young adult chuckles. "Ahhh, yes, the bravery of the Gryffindor; bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He looks at John sternly. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him... the day before yesterday."

"Mmm, and since the day before yesterday, you've spent you're entire time with him, and now you're exploring the school grounds together. May I remind you that you two are underage?"

"Who _are_ you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many _friends_ do you imagine he has?" John keeps quiet at that, already disliking this man. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_ -enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

John looks around the area pointedly. "Well, thank Merlin, _you're_ above all that," he says sarcastically.

The young adult frowns at him, and just then, Roäc, Sherlock's raven swoops in and perches on John's shoulder. John immediately takes the small letter in the raven's claw and looks at the message, ignoring the adult in front of him who is eyeing the raven intently.

 _Forbidden Forest._  
 _Come at once_  
 _if convenient._  
 _SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

Casually, John replies with, "Not distracting me at all."

Roäc flies away at that.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business."

The young man replies a little ominously, "It _could_ be."

John sneers. "It _really_ couldn't."

"If you _do_ continue this association, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to... ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because you're not in a wealthy family."

"In exchange for what?"

The young adult smirks. "Information—nothing indiscreet—nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him... Constantly."

"That's nice of you," John comments insincerely.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."

Roäc returns once more with a disapproving squawk. He immediately takes the letter once more and looks at the message.

 _If inconvenient,_  
 _come anyway._  
 _SH_

"No," John says in response to the young adult's offer just as Roäc leaves.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother."

The young adult laughs briefly. "You're very loyal _very_ quickly. I would have mistaken you for a Hufflepuff."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The young adult looks at him closely for a moment, before fishing out a notebook from his pockets and opens it. He gestures to it slightly.

"'Trust issues' it says here."

For the first time since he came to this secluded area, John feels a sort of nervousness and unease at that.

"What's that?"

The young adult ignores him and continues to _read_ from the book. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of _all_ people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?"

The young adult raises his head and looks into his eyes, making John feel like he's being x-rayed.

"You tell me."

John looks at him for a long moment then turns his back on him and starts to walk away.

"I imagine people would have warned you to stay away from him but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

John stops walking at that. His shoulders drops and he angrily shakes his head at that. Furiously, he turns back around to face the young adult.

"My _what_?" John practically spits through bared teeth.

"Show me," the young adult replies calmly, nodding at John's left hand.

John notices that the young adult stands as if he is being used to being obeyed. John dislikes this type of authority and so raises his hand, bending by the elbow and stands still from where he is. If he wants to examine him, John will not be ordered around like some submissive idiot.

The young adult walks forward and reaches for John's hand which John pulls back.

"Don't," John says tensely.

The young adult lowers his head and raises his brows at John, as if reminding him of his trust issues before John hesitantly holds his hand flat with the palm down.

His hand was taken by the young adult who inspects it closely. "Remarkable," he comments.

"What is?" John asks, taking his hand back.

The young adult turns and walks a few paces away. "Most people blunder round the school, and all they see are classrooms and students and ghosts. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turns to John again. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

John swallows at the reminder of his childhood memories [9].

"What's wrong with my hand?" John asks.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," the young adult says and John nods. "Your muggle therapist [10] thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your father's death."

John flinches as the young adult accurately spews these facts at him. His eyes fix ahead of the young adult.

"Who the _hell are you_?" John, distressed, asks angrily. "How do you know that?" he asks much more calmly.

"You are wise to stop seeing her when you were eight. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

John's eyes fall down at his hand before staring ahead at the distance once more. The young adult finds respect at the Fourth Year student who is trying to hold back his anger.

"You're not haunted by the war, John Watson... You miss it." He leans closer to John and slowly, John's eyes locks with his. "Welcome back," he says in a whisper.

The young adult turns back and starts to walk away just as Roäc comes back and perches himself on John's shoulder once more.

"Time to choose a side, John Watson," the young adult says, casually twirling his umbrella as he walks and disapparates.

John takes the message from the raven once more, who screeches louder than the last time, making John groan in pain from his ear.

 _Could be dangerous._  
 _SH_

"Sorry," John tells the raven who nods at him approvingly and flies off.

At that time, one of the adults with him earlier hands out the portkey once more and John takes it before being pulled back to Hogwarts.

 **—oOo** **—**

 **A FEW WEEKS LATER**

John and Sherlock are both sitting on the seats in the corner of the Headmaster's Office since they were caught out of bed so late and are wandering around the Forbidden Forest and fighting a Blood-Sucking Bugbear [11] to Sarah's horror for _fun_ (according to Sherlock), and for keeping it away from Sherlock and Sarah (according to John, who was dragged into this whilst he and Sarah were on a date in Hogsmeade).

Several professors enter as well as a familiar young adult.

"Sherlock, that's him. That's the man I talked to you about—the one who kidnapped me a few weeks ago."

"I know _exactly_ who that is."

They watch as the professors huddle around the desk to talk amongst themselves and the young adult walks over to them.

"So, another hunting trip gone awry. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, annoyed.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your _concern_."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy."

John frowns at that.

" _I_ upset her? _Me_?" Sherlock asks with disbelief in his voice. The young adult glowers at him. "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, _Mycroft_."

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother—our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft."

John stares at the young adult—Mycroft, who looks back at him briefly.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock mocks Mycroft.

" _Losing_ it, in fact," Mycroft replies.

"He's your _brother_?!" John asks.

"Of _course_ , he's my brother," Sherlock replies almost sadly.

"So, he's not..." John pauses.

"Not what?" Sherlock asks and the two Holmeses stare at John who shrugs in embarrassment.

"I don't know—criminal mastermind? A new dark lord?" John grimaces.

Sherlock looks at Mycroft disdainfully. "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake, I occupy a minor position in the Ministry of Magic."

"He _is_ the Ministry of Magic, when he's not too busy being the Ministry's Secret Service or the MACUSA's [12] CIA on a freelance basis," Sherlock says. Mycroft sighs. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get to the Common Room. You know what it does for the greater good."

Sherlock stands up, knowing that Mycroft's presence means that the professors are letting him off the hook for now. John looks at Sherlock before looking back at Mycroft, who is staring after his brother.

"So, when—when you say you're concerned about him, you _actually_ are concerned?"

"Yes, of course."

"I mean... it actually _is_ a childish feud?"

Mycroft answers, still looking at Sherlock, "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah... no... God, no! I—I'd better, er... Okay, good night."

"Good night, John Watson."

 **—oOo—**

[1] Homenum Revelio is a human-presence revealing charm.

According to its definition, it "indicates a body by a marker, the appearance of which is yet unknown, but which can be felt by the target as something 'swooping' low over him or her."

[2] David Stamford would be Mike Stamford's dad. Mike Stamford was played by David Nellist.

Go back to Chapter 1 of this fic, it would say that Mike's father helped Sherlock with a complicated amount of wounds and hexes. This would mean that Healer Stamford would be under the Spell Damage floor in St. Mungo's.

That happened when Sherlock was five—the time he went to Hogwarts [this story will be discussed further in the next chapters] and where he found Roäc, the raven.

John went to St. Mungo's for training after his first year at Hogwarts for additional money and knowledge. After the Wizarding War and his father dying, he wanted to be a Healer and an Auror [see Sherlock's deduction of John in Chapter 1]

I'd say Spell Damage is more like Surgery.

[3] John would have been seven when the First Wizarding War ended. From Sherlock's explanations, you can see that he slowly asks about wandless magic and if that shows how powerful someone is.

Like Sherlock, he wanted to heal or protect those being attacked—the first of them being his mother and sister after witnessing his father die. He didn't know it was accidental magic at the time...

But by now, John doesn't know how to use that to his advantage. Yes, he healed people with wandless magic but he doesn't know how to use wandless magic to do normal stuff like Sherlock.

[4] The name Iason is a Greek name which means "one who brings healing" or plain "healer" whilst the name O'Hickee came from the Old Irish Gaelic "O'hleidhe" which literally means "descendant of the healer."

I wanted John to be under an actual character from the Potter series but besides the others I have mentioned, they are either too young (like Augustus Pyre who was a trainee healer in 1995 under Hippocrates Smethwyck), incompetent (a healer named Professor Helbert Spleen who made a wrong diagnosis in 1993), or neglectful (like Miriam Strout who neglected to check a gift for a patient which killed said patient).

I'd say Magical Bugs and Diseases is more like Medicine.

[5] Hippocrates Smethwyck was also a healer at St. Mungo's. He was the healer in-charge of the Dai Llewellyn Ward or the Serious Bites Ward.

I wanted to put John under Hippocrates Smethwyck but it seems that this healer's forte is more on Creature-Induced Injuries. I think John would be more on Magical Bugs and Diseases and Spell Damage.

Sorry, I don't know any more so I just added that. I would say that helping Hippocrates at St. Mungo's made John take the elective of Care of Magical Creatures in his third year so he would know how to deal with magical creatures as well.

[6] Miriam Strout is the one in-charge of the Janus Thickey Ward... She mistook the Devil Snare sent to Broderick Bode to be a harmless Flitterbloom in 1995. This mistake cost Bode his life. She got suspended for that.

[7] I have searched all the conditions in John's Curriculum Vitae and some of them John would recognise and mostly treat them right. This doesn't mean he knows all how to treat them, but he knows how to see the sign and symptoms. He's been busy reading, you know.

[8] Some of the ailments here are irreversible or has no treatment like Lycanthropy. Some of the others are hard to treat. John, though, knows how to diagnose a person or how to see the signs or symptoms of these ailments.

[9] Around the first seven years of his life, he would have witnessed fights between wizards and around this time, his father had died. Yes, this is John's version of his Afghan war. He was a part of the Wizarding War as a child. This is one thing Sherlock did not pick up on his deductions.

[10] John was not permanently damaged nor did he obtains a limp so Sherlock could not have deduced a therapist either which his mother forced him to.

[11] Blood-Sucking Bugbears could be large bear-like monsters which occasionally hunt young children and pigs, but usually cockerels. They suck their victims dry of blood and skin them to get the softer tissue.

They aren't beasts so they're not in the book "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" by Newt Scamander. They are non-beings, possibly related to Boggarts.

[12] MACUSA is the Magical Congress of the United States of America. Basically, America's Ministry of Magic.


	5. (1988) Great Presents and Drawbacks

****.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _Alone because of a busy Fourth Year, a certain First Year student stumbles across some trouble on his own._**

 _NOTES:_  
 _I seriously need to finish Sherlock's time at Hogwarts before Harry, Ron, and Hermione comes... The 1991 part (the actual Sherlock Holmes and the Philosopher's Stone part) is done..._

 _I'm actually thinking of changing this fic's name to "Sherlock Holmes and the School of Witchcraft and Wizardy..." THEN post the 1991 part in a separate fic... I'm not sure, guys._

 _What do you think? Or should I just continue adding everything here? So basically, this fic will consist of Sherlock's first year to fourth year (1988-1991)?_

 **—oOo—**

Sherlock is getting bored. John has been busy with Quidditch Practice and time for his apprenticeship with Madame Pomfrey—which Sherlock is inclined to believe as a fairly stupid idea since John is getting enough healing training from St. Mungo's in his summer holidays.

Unfortunately, this means that John is often so tired at night that he cannot be physically awaken from his slumber unless Sherlock wills him to with his magic... and John is absolutely monstrous to be with when he is half-awake and enchanted. It was as if Sherlock was walking with an Inferius [1] when John is in that state.

Naturally, going to adventures and finding discoveries on his own is pretty boring when he's alone because he doesn't have to hide his more powerful wandless abilities. There isn't a _challenge_ to hide more of his power from John's eyes. Things are _too easy_.

So now, he's doing something that is worthy of the title of Gryffindor: he decided to walk in the middle of the night, go to Argus Filch's office, steal something in that office, and just leave... Tomorrow night, after Filch would have had made a fuss over a lost item, he will place it in the most obvious of places and wait for Filch to find it.

What can he say? He's bored, and John's still heavily sleeping.

Twice, he has seen prefects walking around and doing their usual routine... but he rolls his eyes at their incompetence. Here he is, a first year, merely standing beside another statue in the dark and another prefect walking past him.

No wonder Voldemort found it easy to go around Hogwarts.

Finally, he reaches Filch's office, and nonverbally _and_ wandlessly casts " _Alohomora_ " at the locked door which clicks at his casting. Then, he enters the office. It is a boring office, he can say that. The dingy and windowless office is merely lit by a lone oil lamp hanging from the fairly low ceiling. There is a faint smell of fried fish lingering about the place—a high chance that this is the usual meal of Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris.

Sherlock was starting on the idea of stealing the simple oil lamp to give Filch a literal dark time just to mess with the man, but he discovers something incredibly more valuable and exciting—the wooden filing cabinets.

The filing cabinets stand all around the walls and from the labels, Sherlock immediately could see that each drawer contains details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. He finds himself smirking at two drawers with the label:

 **1971—1977  
** _James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew_

He knows these four: the Marauders. He had met these four when he was four, a few months before their deaths (James Potter, and _allegedly_ , Sherlock thinks, Peter Pettigrew) or disappearances (Remus Lupin) or incarceration (Sirius Black). His parents were close to the Potters, or James Potter's parents, and was secretly proud of Sirius Black for pulling away from his fairly abusive family.

Of course, from what he has heard, the Marauders had been a terrible bunch for Filch and he is fairly impressed with the four students.

He is rather... suspicious of their end... but no one would listen to him since he is just a child when they died. He was _four_ , and obviously, no adult would listen to him—especially in the arrogant and ignorant world of wizards and witches.

The next drawer that pulls his attention is a drawer with the label:

 **Confiscated and Highly Dangerous**

Obviously, he practically runs towards the drawer to check on it. There is a plethora of objects inside the drawer but there is one thing that draws him with interest.

A blank piece of parchment.

Obviously, to others, this would seem as nothing but a blank piece of parchment but Sherlock knows better. Why would a blank parchment be inside a drawer labelled "Confiscated and Highly Dangerous"? Sherlock smirks to himself, finding something better than an oil lamp.

Quickly, he takes the parchment from the drawer and quickly walks towards the door to get out of Filch's office. He stops when he reaches the doorknob and contemplates on what to do before making a decision.

Sherlock takes the oil lamp from the ceiling.

Finally he leaves the office, placing the lamp and the parchment in his rucksack, and locks the office nonverbally and wandlessly without effort.

Speaking of nonverbal and wandless, he definitely still needs to master nonverbal wandless magic. Yes, he can move things with a wave of his hand, and do the occasional charms without breaking out a sweat. Unfortunately, he has yet to master harder spells nonverbally. Sure, using wandless for him is easy, but to add in nonverbal wandless magic is a bit harder for his age...

Well, it's harder because he doesn't have a mentor. There is no one to guide him about nonverbal wandless magic. No one competent, that is.

Mycroft mastered nonverbal wandless magic alone in his third year. Their parents were proud of Mycroft, of course, and he was smug... Naturally, Sherlock would not let that continue. Yes, he might be doing the same thing as Mycroft, but he would do it in a _younger_ age. That would make him the better Holmes brother.

Sherlock has already found it a failure that Mycroft managed to cast complete spells wandlessly on his fifth birthday, whilst he learned to cast complete spells wandlessly on the day after his fifth birthday. That's not the only thing Sherlock had thought as a failure. He believes it a failure that he first stood up on his first birthday whilst Mycroft first stood up a few days before his first birthday. Damn Mycroft for being the _advanced_ Holmes brother.

No, he's going to wipe that smug grin off of Mycroft's face.

He has been working on his nonverbal wandless magic immediately after he had learned to cast actual spells wandlessly but to no avail. He has tried to place his magic to its limit but it only proved to make things worse.

After a few years, on his ninth birthday, Sherlock managed to unlock the door to their father's office with nonverbal wandless magic after a few tries. He didn't bother to tell his family because he wants to tell them that he can manage nonverbal wandless magic _after_ he has mastered it completely—which he is predicting will happen before he finishes his first year here at Hogwarts.

He hates the fact that spells that _aren't_ as boring as unlocking charms, summoning charms, and other boring things like moving objects, make him sweat or drain him completely whenever he tries them wordlessly... even wandlessly, sometimes. When spells require great power, his wandless magic takes too much of his core and depletes him at some points.

This is why he is planning on controlling his magic whenever he uses a wand—so he could finally focus his magic so much (like a laser) and concentrate its full power to a smaller degree rather than have it use its full power greatly—it makes Sherlock feel like he is an Obscurial [2] whenever he uses his magic like that.

Sometimes he wonders why he has such powerful magic and that strange man who lives near them tells him that it's because he's been using his magic purposefully and to its limit since he was a baby. Most definitely, the extra knowledge and practice had helped him train to be as good as he is right now. It also explains why he is more sensitive to magical artefacts.

Entering the Ravenclaw tower, he takes a wooden board which he had conjured weeks ago and places it in the middle of the tower before standing on it. He raises both his palms and whispers, "Wingardium Leviosa" and uses it like a lift so he can walk up the tower without dying halfway up the spiral staircase. This is why muggles are much more advanced—they have lifts and escalators.

He reaches the door and the eagle is brought to life upon his presence and asks, "A cup of water is placed in front of you. What is before you?"

Without a beat, Sherlock answers, "Tea," and the eagle opens the door for him. [3]

Quickly, he enters his room—a room he only has for himself since the castle herself had given it to him and him alone. He goes to his bed and sits down crossed-leg with the parchment right in front of him.

He waves his hand on it and feels some amount of magic reacting to his own magic. It isn't strong, but there is _something_ there... but why on Earth would this be placed as something dangerous? The magic isn't dark and it isn't a weapon.

" _Aparecium_ [4]," he says with his palm touching the parchment.

At first, nothing happened before some words start to appear on the said parchment, much to Sherlock's amusement.

 _Mr Moony presents his compliments to  
Mr Holmes on his advanced knowledge  
with charms which would be a benefit  
when mischief arises._

 _Mr Prongs agrees with Mr Moony and  
would like to add that wandless magic at  
a young age is admirable but sad if  
gained by a childhood filled with  
studying._

 _Mr Padfoot would like to register his  
astonishment that Mr Holmes is still  
required to go to school and confusion  
over why Mr Holmes has not taken over  
the world yet._

 _Mr Wormtail bids Mr Holmes a good luck,  
_ _and suggests the use of a password._

Sherlock blinks a few times, trying to take in the fact that a piece of parchment is talking to him... and a password? How on Earth will he find out the password for this parchment. The possibilities are endless. He waves a finger at the parchment and raises it at eye-level and keeps it there.

After five more tries, Sherlock grows slightly irritated at the lack of reaction from the parchment until finally p lacing a hand on the parchment once more and says, "What in the world is this parchment for, anyway?" instead of attempting a password, unknowingly reaching for his magic.

 _Mr Padfoot articulates his reverence to  
Mr Holmes for undeviatingly enquiring  
us._

 _Mr Moony marvels over the mind of Mr  
Holmes and his proficiency to see  
everyone._

 _Mr Prongs maps hereafter the  
ratiocination of Mr Holmes._

 _Mr Wormtail indicates that Mr Holmes is  
unequalled by the whole school._

"See everyone? A map... A map of Hogwarts," Sherlock whispers to himself. "Hold on a minute..."

Sherlock closes his eyes to think, not registering that the parchment had fallen on the bed in front of him because of the disconnection with his magic. Inside, Sherlock tries to think.

Four people created this map and was confiscated by Filch instead of Dumbledore—students. These are four students—mischievous, highly intelligent students. It is one of the most recent additions to Filch's drawer, seeing as it is still near at the top of the stack of artefacts in the drawer. This could only mean one thing: the Marauders had created this parchment—this map of Hogwarts.

He says a bunch of more ridiculous sentences to open up the parchment but to no avail. This only grows the frustration building up inside of Sherlock. It is about two hours later after he had arrived in his room when Sherlock finally snaps.

"Just open up and show me the map, you damned parchment!" Sherlock says through gritted teeth, placing his hand in front of it once more, unknowingly using more of his magic to throw at the parchment.

 _Mr Moony frets over Mr Holmes and is  
inclined to advocate to reduce the  
practice of a swear._

 _Mr Padfoot promulgates that Mr Moony  
is an antediluvian and would like to sigh  
solemnly._

 _Mr Wormtail desires to apprehend what  
Mr Holmes is up to._

 _Mr Prongs conjectures that the utilisation  
of an intolerable amount of wizardry for a  
piece of parchment is no good._

"What I am up to?" Sherlock whispers to himself. "Wait, no." Sherlock understands that the answer is within the words of the map. They did this already when he asked about the purpose of the map. There has got to be a clue somewhere.

So far, the Marauders had used casual words when addressing him but then used rather presumptuous words with high vocabulary when he asks a direct question—of course, the answer is that the words that are not presumptuous are the words to continue the phrase.

Word or words from each of their sentences must have been used... Sherlock looks at the parchment again and sees that these words or the word or words at the end of their sentences. Merlin, he's getting rusty.

"I swear solemnly that I am up to no good," Sherlock states, with his hand still hovering over the parchment.

 _Mr Prongs solemnly disagrees on the  
password uttered by Mr Holmes._

 _Mr Padfoot is inclined to swear that Mr  
Holmes is on the brink of the genuine  
password._

 _Mr Wormtail switches his expression of  
uncertainty to encouragement._

 _Mr Moony would like to register his  
advocacy for Mr Holmes._

Sherlock ponders over the words of the Marauders. "Switch the two words? Alright then; I _solemnly swear_ that I am up to no good."

With that, words appear on the parchment once more but different than before.

 _Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs_  
 _Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers_  
 _are proud to present_

 **THE MARAUDER'S MAP**

It is a map showing every detail of the castle and grounds. The tiny dots moving around it is labeled with a name in minuscule writing. It shows Professor Snape walking around the school grounds as well as some of the other professors. He sees some students inside empty classrooms doing who-knows-what.

He looks over the Gryffindor Tower to see John still in his bed. Granted, it is three o'clock in the morning. Speaking of which, he had forgotten to eat dinner last night.

With a smirk, he takes the parchment and goes to the kitchen. It would be much easier to avoid prefects and professors.

 **—oOo** **—**

"John!" Sherlock bellows as he goes through the Great Hall, ignoring the looks on everyone else's faces at his excited running towards where John is seated at the Gryffindor table. The other students tease John on his new little boyfriend while John just mostly reprimands them by saying that Sherlock is just a kid and that he's not gay—the usual, then.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asks, looking at the first year who sat beside him.

"I found something," Sherlock says with a grin.

"Could it be an oil lamp?" John asks and the other students try to listen in at the mention of the oil lamp. Sherlock's brows knot in confusion. John stares on. "Oil lamp? Filch's oil lamp? I heard it was stolen last night."

"Ahhh," Sherlock whispers at John with a nod and smirks, "it may or may not be in my room at the moment." John smirks in reply, looking at the angered caretaker who is holding his cat in his arms. "No, I found something even better."

"What is it?" John asks.

"Follow me," Sherlock simply replies and jumps away from the table and outside the Great Hall with John following behind him.

He tells John what he had done and at first, John was wary at the idea that it is part of the confiscated and dangerous drawer, but after Sherlock's explanation, mischief grows in John's eyes.

"So, what do we do?" John asks.

"I want to make a bear trap for Filch," Sherlock says with a grin.

"No, Sherlock!" John scolds.

"I _mean_ , place his oil lamp in a crowded area and prank him when he reaches for it," Sherlock replies. "Then again, using an actual bear trap could be advantageous."

" _Sherlock_!"

"Kidding."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not."

 **—oOo** **—**

"Dear _Merlin_ , would you all just _shut up_!" Sherlock yells at everyone behind him.

"Mister _Holmes_ , detention!" the Potions Master bellows.

"You should be thanking me!" Sherlock replies to the professor, glaring at the Gryffindors and Slytherins behind him. "These _idiots_ wouldn't go past their house rivalry and shut up while doing their work!"

"Five points from Ravenclaw!" the professor says loudly.

All the students behind him snicker at Sherlock who, in turn, rolls his eyes. Of course, the only time they show house unity is when they are targeting the same victim. How _idiotic_ and so annoyingly _human_.

Sherlock turns his head away from the snickering idiots and looks at the professor, narrowing his eyes at him in a confused innocent way just to spite him a little. "But, sir, I'm a _Slytherin_ today."

Snape blinks a few more times and glares daggers at Sherlock who takes his glare unyieldingly, even daring to tilt his head as if challenging the man to retract his points.

"Five points from Slytherin," the professor whispers. The Gryffindors and Slytherins gasp at that and the latter show their disdain—glaring at Sherlock the whole time.

Sherlock does not actually care about house rivalry or whatnot. He just want to gain control over the authority—mostly because he finds them downright annoying... and he really dislikes it when undeserving people gain power, and so the only way to bring them down is to strip them of their power... which he can only do by taking their power and obtaining it himself.

Hmm... Guess he _is_ a Slytherin today, after all.

A few moments of silence later, they hear the professor award another Slytherin twenty points for a well-timed addition to her potion. Sherlock looks at the Potions Master who gives him a sardonic smirk in return.

 **—oOo** **—**

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?" John, who is wearing some sort of uniform, asks Sherlock.

"I should... ask you... the same," Sherlock replies.

"Sherlock, I _work_ here, remember? I'm training to be a Healer?" John reminds a very pale Sherlock who was brought in the Hospital Wing a few moments before. "God, what the hell happened to you?"

"I thought you're... training to be... a... a Healer?" Sherlock quips with a teasing smirk.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John responds. "No, but seriously, what happened?"

"I don't know... why I'm brought here... to be perfectly honest... I'm fine," Sherlock says, shrugging his shoulders. He winces at the movement, hissing as he grabs his right shoulder.

John merely raises his brow and tells Sherlock, "Yes, and I'm a raging Hippogriff with two silver wings that breathes green fire."

Sherlock looks at John with an unamused glare. "Really?"

"I'm just saying—" John shrugs his shoulders just as he tries to peel off Sherlock's robes slowly—"that my claim is truer than yours... Jesus Christ."

Taking away Sherlock's already blood-stained robes, the white shirt under Sherlock's robes had turned completely red.

"What the hell happened?" John asks him whilst Sherlock looks down at his chest in surprise.

"I was not... aware of... how much blood... was drawn," Sherlock says, looking down.

"What happened?" John asks before taking his wand and casting a silent, " _Tergeo_ " to clean up the dried blood from the still bleeding wounds on Sherlock's torso.

"I'm not sure..." Sherlock replies weakly, finally turning serious at the extent of his injuries.

John continues to use _Episkey_ [5] to heal some of Sherlock's more minor wounds (split lip, broken nose) as he listens to Sherlock talk. Sherlock lets John do his work, feeling the cold-hot sensation _Episkey_ brings.

"I was... turning to a corridor when... I hit a student about... 6'1 with cal—callous hands... I did not hear an... incantation and so I... distinctly remember... seeing a probable... nonverbal... stunning spell... because it is a... red light with... strong intent—judging by... its vibrance and—and—and speed... Next thing I know... I was used as a p—" Sherlock stops talking at that. John's breath hitches.

"As a what, Sherlock?" John asks dangerously as he summons a Wound-Cleaning Potion with a nonverbal spell.

"A pi—piñata..." Sherlock replies with his cheeks reddening.

It would have been an amusing topic to John if it wasn't for how horrible the situation is.

"Sarah!" John yells.

"Yeah, John?" a girl materialises behind John and looks at Sherlock. "Oh Merlin, what happened?"

Sherlock really hates that name now. They keep repeating it over and over again.

"Can you treat him? I don't think I'm capable at the moment," John says through gritted teeth, handing her the Wound-Cleaning Potion.

Sarah places a delicate hand on John's shoulder and John gives her a small smile. Sherlock raises a brow at this. _John has a girlfriend?_

"You were saying?" John asks whilst Sarah inspects Sherlock.

"Ahhh, yes, well, I... woke up right-side up... I deduced that I... was not unconscious... for too long... but that I was... lifted upside down... _Levicorpus_ [6]... was used... We both know it's... easy for me to... undo the jinx... but they were... doing it for me..."

"Explain?" John asks quietly.

"I spent about five... to ten seconds... under... a Levicorpus before... someone says Libera... Liberacorpus [7], and... it cycles over... and over..."

"That explains the head wound," Sarah comments, looking at the wound on the back of Sherlock's head.

"What about those—?" John asks, gesturing at the cuts and bruises on Sherlock's torso.

"That would be... from Oppugno [8]..." Sherlock replies. "I believe they were... sending me a plethora... of items—from books... to armour... to broken glass... I managed to... dodge some of them... but the others?.. Not so much... I may have gone... unconscious halfway since... I have more cuts... and bruises than I... expected since I last... remembered..."

"Who did this to you, then?" John asks.

"I don't know."

" _Sherlock_! These people should be expelled!"

"I didn't see... who they were... They were... hiding behind... hoods and robes similar to... Death Eater garb... and— _ow_."

Sherlock looks down to see her cleaning one of the worst cuts with a dab of the purple potion that he knows is the Wound-Cleaning Potion. He stares down as the cut smokes and continues to sting.

"Sorry," Sarah says quietly, poking his shoulder with her wand and the cut heals instantly.

"We should report this to the headmaster," John says angrily, standing up.

"I'm gonna call Madame Pomfrey," Sarah says with a frown, "This is too much for three of us, and Mike's not even here..." and before Sherlock stops them, Sarah's already calling her from her office, and John's already asking Madame Pomfrey for her floo.

"Good heavens!" Madame Pomfrey exclaims at the sight of Sherlock.

"Really, Madame Pomfrey?" Sherlock asks with a weak smile. "This is not the... first time you... have seen me... here," he tells her softly.

"None of that, Holmes. Let me check on you..."

Madame Pomfrey starts to inspect him all over, muttering about the increasing violence amongst students as well as the dark terror the dark lord is making even years after his defeat.

She takes out her wand and points it at his dislocated shoulder before casting, "Brackium Emendo [9]." Sherlock watches as a blue light is emitted from her wand and he feels his shoulder be mended, eliciting a loud yelp from him.

"Tell me if this hurts," Madame Pomfrey says and starts poking Sherlock on the ribs. He cries out when she touches a certain part which he didn't know was actually a painful spot. "Just as I thought—broken ribs."

Sherlock sighs in exhaustion, and didn't realise he was falling forward from where he was seated when he feels familiar hands go to his shoulder and someone saying his name multiple times.

"Sherlock?"

"...J'hn...?"

"Mister Holmes," he hears a man's voice say.

"Pr'fess'r D'mbled're," Sherlock slurs, getting more and more tired as his own magic instinctively heals him. "St'p it," he mutters to himself, closing his eyes due to exhaustion, clutching at his own chest.

"Stop what? Sherlock?" John asks.

"I believe Mister Holmes is talking to his own magic..."

"His own magic, headmaster?" they hear Madame Pomfrey asks.

"Mister Holmes here is only now experiencing his own magic heal him as of this moment since he has fully acknowledged that he has been attacked and is injured," Sherlock hears Dumbledore explain to someone. "To have a reaction such as this, his condition must have been more grave than we first thought... I have to apologise, Mister Holmes, that this has happened to you in this school under my nose."

"Nn... 'tis f'ne... 'mpr'ssed 'ctually... how'all H'gw'rts hous's... c'n st'll... w'rk... tog'th'r wh'n... th'y've a comm'n 'nemy..."

"You are not an enemy of anyone, Sherlock," John says, helping Sherlock with the bandages, "and especially not a common enemy."

"'ve lotta 'nemies... P'ple hate mmm..."

"Sher—"

"Mister Holmes, drink this, _now_ ," he hears Madame Pomfrey demands.

Sherlock doesn't even care that someone is holding his head as he lets them make him drink the potion. His face scrunches at the familiar taste of the Blood-Replenishing Potion. He really hates the idea of him losing too much blood. It just adds more time being locked up in the infirmary.

"You can't sleep yet, Sherl," he hears John say. "We have to make sure you're not concussed so open your eyes for us... There we go..." He hears some more rustling and he almost falls over backwards this time but a set of hands stop him once more. "Just sleep, mate..."

"C'n...cus...s'n..." Sherlock whispers.

"I already told you you're cleared from concussion, Sherlock... You can sleep now."

"Mmm..."

With that, Sherlock embraces the darkness.

 **—oOo** **—**

A few hours later, Sherlock wakes up to see Mycroft casually sitting beside his bed with his leg on top of the other. He seems to be too busy writing in a small notebook to notice him wake up but unfortunately, Mycroft calmly states, "You are in luck."

"Why? Because I'm not dead?" Sherlock asks weakly and quietly.

"No, because I managed to read the letter from the headmaster about your... situation before our parents took notice of it..." Mycroft replies, looking at Sherlock significantly.

Sherlock sighs in relief. He does _not_ want his parents involved. He and Mycroft had agreed about that years ago. It wouldn't take well for their parents to know how much Sherlock's... peers... react to his... existence.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft raises a brow. "What do you think? You are recovering from wounds and injuries far greater than a simple bullying can achieve," Mycroft says, making Sherlock cringe at the b-word.

Sherlock sighs. "The usual, then."

"Usual, indeed," Mycroft replies, eyeing Sherlock as the latter attempts to sit up. "I don't suppose this stops you from spending your Christmas here at Hogwarts?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock smirks. "Can't handle Christmas without me, dear _brother_?" he teases.

Mycroft huffs. "Please. I'll be _ecstatic_ to have a quiet Christmas dinner for once."

Sherlock chuckles. "You, alone with mother and father? I don't think so."

Mycroft grimaces. "No, you're right. Go home so you can be the distraction whilst I eat in peace."

"Finally admitting that your diet's going nowhere, then?"

"For your information, I had just lost weight."

"Yes, how much? Half a pound?"

" _Three_ pounds."

Sherlock laughs. "Hardly an effort, dear brother."

"Too busy handling the Ministry, _brother mine_."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Are they under your thumb, then?"

"Without their knowledge, yes."

"At the age of eighteen?" Sherlock asks disbelievingly.

"Being a Slytherin helps you learn a lot of things, Sherlock."

"They won't work with me."

"No, I don't suppose they do," Mycroft says, taking note of Sherlock's healing wounds. "With the headmaster's help, we have traced back your assailants and they have already been expelled from the school."

Sherlock huffs. "Additional enemies, I suppose?" he mutters.

"Yes... Sherlock, I already told you—"

"Merlin, you sound like mother."

"—to keep your head _down_. You're making too much of a reputation for yourself."

"I thought Slytherins like making reputations for themselves?"

"Your kind of reputation is not... an appealing one. It will cause you downfall. People will suffer... the new _Merlin_... You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock." Sherlock huffs at that. "Well, sensing that you're responding to my words, I take it that I do not have to check if you are doing well."

"Oh, yes, I'm doing great."

"I'll be off then. I have a meeting in the Ministry." Sherlock watches as Mycroft stands up and grabs the black umbrella which Sherlock had gifted for him when they were younger—it was an inside joke which involves secret agents and Mary Poppins.

Unconsciously, Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock couldn't help a small flinch at the contact. The two brothers stare at each other in surprise at both of their actions, both blinking profusely.

"I'll... go back to sleep, then..."

"Sherlock," Mycroft says with a nod.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says in return.

With that, Mycroft leaves and Sherlock places his head back on his pillow and sleeps.

 **—oOo** **—**

[1] An Inferius or the Inferi is, apparently, a dead body, reanimated by a dark wizard. It seems to be like a zombie of sorts.

[2] According to the wiki, an Obscurial is a young wizard or witch who developed a dark parasitical magical force, known as an Obscurus, as a result of their magic being suppressed through psychological or physical abuse.

[3] "A cup of water is placed in front of you. What is before you (the letter U)?"  
"Tea (the letter T)."

[4] Aparecium is the revealing charm. It is a charm that forces invisible ink or other hidden messages to appear. It is also possible this spell can be used to make other invisible things reveal themselves.

[5] Episkey can mend broken or dislocated bones and heal minor injuries.

[6] Levicorpus causes the victim to be hoisted into the air by their ankle.

[7] Liberacorpus is the counter-jinx for Levicorpus.

[8] Oppugno is a spell that directs an object or individual to attack the victim.

[9] Brackium Emendo is the incantation of a healing spell that can be used to mend broken bones.


	6. ANNOUNCEMENT

I apologise for this shitty move of making a whole chapter into an Author's Note but I have made a decision.

.

.

.

 _ **I HAVE CHANGED THE NAME OF THIS FIC**_

.

.

.

From

 _"Sherlock Holmes and the Philosopher's Stone"_

to

 _"Sherlock Holmes and the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry"_

.

.

.

.

.

Reasons why I did what I did:

 **1**  
I have dragged out Sherlock's first year of Hogwarts too long.

 **2**  
There is a high possibility that Sherlock's second and third year and John's fifth year and sixth year will have more than five chapters as well, and therefore will make the prequel for the whole series too long.

 **3**  
Harry, Ron, and Hermione's first appearances are going later than I had hoped.

 **4**  
I will be writing a fic under the same name.

 **5**  
It will be the second book of my fic series  
" _Sherlock at Hogwarts_ "

 **6**  
It will be centred around Sherlock and John and how they dealt with Harry, Ron, and Hermione trying to go for the Philosopher's Stone.

 **7**  
This current one will focus on the years before they met the trio.

 **8  
** Yes, there is a possibility that this will be eight fics in the series.

.

.

.

* * *

DONT WORRY

THE NEXT CHAPTER IS ALMOST DONE


	7. (1988) Obstinacy of a Ravenclaw

****.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _A stubborn Ravenclaw reveals more of his magical knowledge as well as associations with different types of disciplinarians._**

 _NOTES:_  
 _I completely apologise for the previous chapter. I was planning on posting that on the same day I will post this chapter, but I accidentally clicked the wrong button. Dang it.  
_ _Here, I am posting this earlier than usual._

 **—oOo—**

Sherlock walks out of the Hospital Wing the next day with Madame Pomfrey telling him to drink some Potions he would need in order to be able to walk without collapsing at any time. John is currently serving his detention with Professor McGonagall for duelling with the higher years—particularly, the ones who had inflicted Sherlock's sorry state.

Apparently, John has picked up some of Sherlock's antics by hiding himself to eavesdrop on the professors' conversation about Sherlock's assailants. Sherlock had been impressed with John's actions but now, he thinks of it as a stupid move because John is forced to do his detention when Sherlock needs him the most.

Out of habit, Sherlock first lets his head out of the door to check for students outside in the corridor—in case of... well...

He gives out a mighty yelp when someone pokes the side of his head. His magic lashes out as well, making the unknown student fly away from him and hit the wall opposite the doors to the Hospital Wing.

"Ow," he hears the ginger groan.

"Charlie! Are you alright?" says the other ginger—Bill Weasley, the school head boy.

William "Bill" Weasley is tall, thin and handsome with long hair tied to a ponytail. Sherlock would admit that Bill Weasley could be identified as one of the _cool_ types in Muggle London.

"Yes, yes, fine," Charlie mutters.

Charles "Charlie" Weasley, on the other hand, is short and stocky but definitely muscled. He has a lot of freckles—too much that one would think he is tanned. Sherlock deduces that he is someone who definitely likes going outdoors—judging from the _actual_ tan lines, and that this man likes to work with his hands, particularly something involving magical creatures—judging from the amount of blisters and calluses on his hands.

"Can you stand up?" Bill asks Charlie.

Sherlock starts to walk away but one of them stops him by saying, "Hold it right there, Holmes."

Tensing a bit, he lets his irrational behaviour go since he has already deduced that these two people are far from the bullying types. Sighing, Sherlock turns and watches as the two Weasleys approach him.

"Sorry about that, Holmes," Charlie says apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Sherlock notices amusedly that the younger Weasley is looking at him directly in the eye and slightly bowing down—as if he is a Hippogriff, which only confirms Sherlock's deduction of Charlie Weasley being one for magical creatures.

"I'm not a Hippogriff," Sherlock points out.

"W—what?" both Weasleys ask.

"You," Sherlock says, looking at Charlie with a small nod, "are waiting for me to make the first move..." Sherlock mockingly leans forward, giving Charlie a small bow of his own. "There, see? I've made contact." Both Weasleys look at the first year in curiosity before both chuckling.

"You know what, kid?" Bill says, moving forwards and patting Sherlock on the head. "You're alright... Bill Weasley." Bill extends a hand for Sherlock to shake.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replies and nods at Charlie, "and you are Charlie Weasley. I remember seeing you both when I was a child..." They both nod.

"Listen, Holmes, we're here to—"

"—accompany me to the common room in case of other assailants?" Sherlock cuts Bill off. "Yes, I know. Although, I find that having two _bodyguards_ is unnecessary."

"We volunteered," Charlie tells him. "After seeing John get so angry... I wanted to help a friend out. He was so frustrated to be in detention today..."

Of course, he almost forgot that Charlie, who is the Gryffindor Seeker, is also the current Captain of the Gryffindor Team. John is currently one of the Chasers, although is acting as a Lieutenant to Charlie.

"Still," Sherlock comments with a shrug, "to have two is a bit too much."

"It's just a precaution," Bill tells him.

Sherlock shrugs before following the two Weasleys to the Ravenclaw common room but halfway there, he changes his mind and tells them that he would rather be in the Gryffindor common room as of this moment.

"John's still in detention, you know," Charlie informs him. "McGonagall is pretty crossed with him when he decided to attack your... well—"

"—attackers?" Charlie grimaces but nods. "He is not the reason I want to be in the Gryffindor common room," Sherlock says.

"Oh?" both of them ask.

"Some... Ravenclaws... are not entirely fond of me at the moment. Well, there are no safe common rooms for me to reside in—except the Hufflepuff common room but I would not last a day in there from the amount of _social interactions_ I would be receiving there."

"Then why the Gryffindor common room?" Bill asks.

Sherlock shrugs. "Everyone has seen the wrath of Professor McGonagall to those Gryffindors who got expelled. They will know better than to get within a two-mile radius from me."

"Are you alright, though?" Bill asks.

"Yes," Sherlock replies.

"Well, they weren't exactly—"

"—Tactful? Intelligent? Creative? Interesting?" Sherlock lists.

"Merciful..." Bill whispers.

Sherlock hums. "I suppose not. I was close to summoning a dragon to come to my aid."

"Summoning a dragon?" Charlie asks with a snort. "No one can summon a dragon."

"I can," Sherlock says with a shrug, smirking at the disbelieving look on Charlie's face. "If I had done it a few days ago, it wouldn't have been the first time."

"When _was_ the first time?" Bill asks.

"It was just around three years ago... but I don't remember much. I was glad I live in a secluded manor in practically the middle of nowhere. Although, we have a few wizard neighbours..." Sherlock says conversationally. "Well, just one actually."

"How do you summon dragons?" Charlie asks interestedly.

"You call out to them in the Dragon Tongue," Sherlock tells him.

"What?" Charlie asks. "I've heard of no such thing..."

"Well, it isn't exactly known to the public. Our neighbour knows the Dragon Tongue and he thought me how to speak it when I asked him to."

"Who was he?" Bill asks. "That neighbour of yours? Who was he?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I'm not too sure myself. He was one of the outcasts of the neighbourhood, and so naturally, he and I are immediate friends even though he is around his twenties, but knowing the pace of how wizards age, I have no doubt he is already older than he seems to look like."

"W-w-w-wait, you know how to speak to dragons?" Charlie asks excitedly.

"Yes."

"Will—will you teach me?"

"Mind you, it took me about five years to master the language..."

"How old were you when you started?" Bill asks him.

"I was about three..."

"What's his name—your teacher?" Charlie asks him.

Sherlock hums. "Lemnir [1], I think his name is. Besides being our neighbour, I remember that he had oftentimes been our babysitter when our parents leave for grand balls and such. On second thoughts, I might not be helpful in teaching you. The basis for all of this is hard to be taught on top of everything else. I could give you his address and he could teach you if you're up to it."

"Sure! Anything!" Charlie says, squealing.

"I should warn you: the first time he taught me, he summoned an actual dragon to talk to him directly."

Charlie looks as if he is about to faint from excitement.

"Mum won't allow you, you know," Bill points out, "and you will be forced to finish Hogwarts first before doing anything that involves dragons."

Charlie sighs. "I know... but bloody hell, this is better than nothing."

Bill laughs. "True."

"Stop," Sherlock suddenly says.

"Sherlock?" Charlie asks in concern.

"Just a moment," Sherlock says weakly, leaning on the wall with one hand and the other hand on his knee. After a few moments, Sherlock snaps up again, "Alright, let's go."

Bill and Charlie share another look before following the younger teen.

 **—oOo—**

The Potions Master was not amused that Sherlock had decided to come in early for his detention but he masks his disappointment by sneering and saying, "Good of you to join me, Mister Holmes."

"Sherlock, sir, please," Sherlock snips back.

Snape narrows his eyes at the student. Sherlock, in turn, stares at the professor on his desk as he stands by the doorway. Snape was halfway in checking his students' homework, it seems. The two stare at each other coldly. Sherlock is not going down without a fight. He just loves challenging authority—especially those who do not deserve it.

True, Severus Snape may be one of the best potioneers in the world (despite his age of 28) but that doesn't make him a good teacher or authority-figure... and he would just love to put that sneer on Snape's face into shock or speechlessness.

"Sit. down," Snape orders coldly, successfully hiding his desire to kill his student.

"Where, sir?" Sherlock asks innocently.

Snape pauses momentarily. "Where do you think?"

"I could sit on the floor, sir, on one of your shelves if I'm brave enough, on one of the student desks, or I can even sit on _your_ desk, sir, but of course, we both do _not_ want that. Oh, I could sit on—"

"Five points from Ravenclaw."

Sherlock smirks. "I'm in Slytherin, sir."

"You were a Slytherin last Friday. You cannot be a Slytherin on a Monday."

"Professor, why can't I be a Slytherin twice in a week?"

"Because you are more loyal to Ravenclaw."

"I could be a Ravenclaw thrice in a week, sir, but still be a Slytherin twice in a week. You forget about Saturdays and Sundays, professor."

"We both know that's not true—another five points from Ravenclaw."

"Do you really believe I care about house points, _sir_?"

"How about how your fellow housemates will think of you when they have to deal with the fact that you're lowering their chances on the House Cup?"

"And do you really believe I care about what my housemates think of me, _professor_?"

"Five points from Ravenclaw for your cheek."

"Which cheek, sir? My left cheek or my right?"

"Sit down on that desk—" Snape points at the desk in front of him—"and write down this sentence—" he points at the sentence on the blackboard behind him which says, _I will stop being a nuisance in class_ —"four hundred times on a piece of parchment. You may use any form of writing material to write this sentence with _except a wand or a Quick-Quotes quill_ [2]," Snape adds the last sentence when he sees Sherlock open his mouth to retort once more.

"Just making sure, sir," Sherlock says with a smirk before sitting down on the desk and taking a piece of parchment and... a biro. Sherlock sees Snape raise a brow at this.

"Where is your quill, Mister Holmes?" Snape asks.

"Professor, you're a half-blood. I would expect you to know what a pen is?" Sherlock asks.

"How did you know I'm a—"

"I have my ways, sir." Sherlock watches Snape hold in his anger impressively successfully. Before the professor talks once more, adding a punishment, he says, "Well, professor, I do believe you had told me I _may use any form of writing material to write this sentence with except a wand or a Quick-Quotes quill._ I assumed that a pen is not disallowed, sir."

"Just start writing. If you do not finish writing these lines at the end of the detention, you will have another one. Are we clear, Mister Holmes?"

"Crystal, professor," Sherlock replies. Snape nods and looks down on the students' homework once more but was interrupted before his quill touched the parchment. "Sir, how will you know I had written four hundred lines? Are you going to count each of them?"

" _Start. writing_."

Sherlock smirks at his victory in making Severus Snape lose his calm exterior.

An hour later, Sherlock cracks his knuckles as well as his fingers, saying, "I'm done, professor."

Snape looks up from another horrid homework written by a Ravenclaw to see that it has only been an hour since Holmes started writing.

"Add fifty more lines," he says, disbelief in his voice.

"Why, professor?"

"Because I am inclined to believe that you either used magic to finish those lines, or you are lying, so start."

"Why would you think that, professor? You can see from here that I have used a significant amount of parchment as well. Also, it is obvious that I had used a muggle pen, or am I wrong to assume that my knowledge of the muggle world is good?"

"I do not believe you would finish four hundred lines in an hour."

"Sir, I spent an awful amount of time alone, _by choice_ , as a child and I had had challenged myself to things such as writing lines as an experiment. This is child's play, _professor_. In a second, I can write half a word to two words—depending on the length of the word. From my assumption, I could write the assigned line in eight seconds to nine seconds. I had tried to write as quickly as possible to finish in an hour. I have already trained myself to endure long amounts of time in discomfort so that is not a problem. _Please_ , sir, do not assume that I had cheated my way out of this detention," Sherlock sneers.

Snape is unsure whether he should laugh or not. One, a student is actually saying that he has trained himself for circumstances like detention. Two, this student's writing is horrible—if he didn't know the lines he had assigned, he probably wouldn't understand the words. Three, this student had actually timed himself to finish in an hour.

"Your writing is terrible."

"Sir, you did not mention anything about legibility."

"Then do you lack the common sense to write legibility when told to write lines?"

"But sir, that is my normal hand-writing."

Oddly enough, Snape knows he is telling the truth since many of the professors had also complained about his penmanship. Flitwick had talked to him about it, obviously, but it seems that Holmes is genuine with his hand-writing because it is apparently _in line with the thought process—_ Flitwick quoted Sherlock when the other professors asked.

"Leave," Snape says with a sigh instead.

"Yes, sir," Sherlock replies, taking his things and leaving without another word. Snape rubs his face with the palm of his hand.

How on Earth Sherlock Holmes is not a Slytherin, Snape will never know.

 **—oOo—**

"You're staying here?" Sherlock asks John, who nods and hums absentmindedly, reading _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ to pass the time. "It's Christmas?" Sherlock asks once more. "Don't muggle-raised people... celebrate that more than... the magical-raised?"

"I don't think there will be people for me to go back to, Sherlock," John replies without a hint of emotion, as if it is a fact.

Sherlock hums, remembering John's alcoholic sister who causes too much trouble than usual, and of John's depressed temperamental mother who would probably rather have a silent Christmas than fuss over him.

The next day, Thorondor, Sherlock's eagle, swoops in the Great Hall with a letter tied to his leg.

Sherlock takes the letter and grimaces.

"Who's that from?" John asks.

"Probably my mother trying to change my mind about staying at Hogwarts for Christmas."

"Why?" John asks. "Why _would_ you stay here for Christmas?" John asks curiously.

"There is a lack of students and professors. There would be plenty of time to roam around the halls and explore the whole citadel without interruption or suspicion... Also, I have yet to find out what Christmas at Hogwarts is like." Sherlock glides his eyes on the letter.

"It's silent and... boring, to be honest... but I guess we can use magic in the school without getting in trouble, as long as you are not caught."

Sherlock huffs. "That's not entirely true. The students may have the Trace [3] on them but once you are in a building or an entirely magical area, the Trace's influence is overshadowed by the amount of magic in the area. It's like a phone. It loses its connection when you're in an area without a signal... or, in this case, has too much signal that it overpowers your phone."

"You have so much interest in phones," John tells Sherlock amusedly.

"I'm fascinated with the object. It is a much easier method of communication and research. It is a small object where most of your needs can be met with a single click of a button. In the Wizarding World, we have to use extensive time and research in the library for a small amount of information. Might I add the fact that we still use letters to communicate—again, a waste of time used for waiting, and it takes a toll out of the owls, or in my case, with Thorondor."

The eagle nudges its head on Sherlock's, as if snuggling to the smaller student. John has grown used to Sherlock and his odd arrangements, but the other students still look fascinated at the eagle and his relationship with the First Year.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John asks, taking a bite out of his meal.

"My mother is not taking no for an answer. She requires my presence at the manor for Christmas."

"Why?" John asks. "Is there a ball? Are you going somewhere?"

Sherlock grimaces. "No, she simply wants me to be there. She's been hinting at it for months ever since Mycroft told her that I had already planned on staying here for the holidays." John laughs. "She's inviting you, too."

John shakes his head. "Oh no, I don't want to intrude."

"She's not taking no for an answer, John." Sherlock hands the letter from his father to John.

 _Son,_

 _I want to warn you that your mother is  
sending you a Howler about your  
decision about Christmas. She wants to  
meet that friend of yours, John, too. I  
cannot stress this enough, son: She is  
not taking no for an answer._

 _The Howler will probably be there later in  
the afternoon. I suggest that quiet spot  
near the lake—the one I told you about  
months back. I always read my howlers  
there, remember?_

 _Good luck._

 _Dad._

Sherlock grimaces as John laughs. "Your dad sounds like a good man."

"He's a great man," Sherlock replies absentmindedly. John smiles at the respect and fondness Sherlock has for his dad which Sherlock himself might not be noticing since he's so busy grimacing at the letter in his hand.

"You thought wrong, then," John suddenly says.

"What?" Sherlock asks, snapping his attention to John.

"You thought this letter was from your mum, but it's obviously from your dad."

"The message was clear that this involves my mother. This is a warning but I am right to deduce that my mother seeks my attention."

John rolls his eyes. "Stop it. You got it wrong."

"Won't happen again," Sherlock replies with a huff. Sherlock grabs his rucksack and takes a piece of parchment to write on.

 _Thank you for_ _the  
warning. __It is very  
much __appreciated._  
 _SH_

Sherlock then places the short reply in the same envelope his father had used and ties it the same way his father had had. "Here, Thorondor," Sherlock says and looks at Thorondor in the eye for a few moments.

 _Give this letter to my father only when he is alone._

 _I don't like being used like a messenger._

"Where's Roäc?" Sherlock asks the eagle, not knowing that he is asking out loud.

 _Sleeping_ , replies the eagle in Sherlock's head.

"I see..." Sherlock says, nodding. "Well, he does need the rest. I've been using him like an owl."

 _Which you are making me do._

"Fine, let me grab that back..." Sherlock says, taking the letter from Thorondor once more and adding more words to say in the letter.

 _P.S. Thorondor_ _does  
_ _not_ _like acting like a  
messenger. Might I_  
 _suggest one of your_  
 _owls?_

"There, happy?" Sherlock asks the eagle who squawks back positively, gladly offering his leg for Sherlock to tie the message. With that, Sherlock watches as the eagle opens up his wings and flies out of the Great Hall.

When he lowers his gaze from where the eagle had left, his eyes see everyone else staring at him with an odd look upon their faces.

"What?" Sherlock asks John in confusion.

"H-how do you understand the eagle?" John asks.

"I told you the first day: Roäc, Thorondor, and I have a different means of communication so we can understand each other," Sherlock says, helping himself with some lunch since he isn't busy today and he actually found himself getting hungry.

"How?" John insists.

"I read eagle and raven body language when I was younger and I managed to train them to understand basic human language. It was like teaching babies how to talk..." Sherlock says, shrugging.

John nods and the other students add this to the list of why Sherlock Holmes is a weird sketchy student.

 _I'm lying_.

John jumps up from his seat in surprise at the sudden voice inside his head. The others stare at him and he coughs and says something about the hot soup spilling on his clothes. He looks at Sherlock in the corner of his eye to see him mindlessly eating his lunch without a care in the world—as if he had not just talked inside of John's head... or perhaps John was just mistaken.

 _You're not._

John opens his mouth but—

 _Do not talk to me. I don't want others to know that I am a natural legilimens and occlumens. They will take it as further proof on why I am the new Merlin or the new dark lord in the making._

 _Your brother—_

— _taught me how to communicate through Legilimency. This isn't Legilimency, though. It is Telepathy. The art itself is almost the same as Legilimency in the sense that I have to infiltrate your mind to hear your thoughts. It is an exhausting practice since I am not going through past thoughts—I am searching for the present one. For the one being infiltrated, it is easier for you to communicate since it is I who have opened the connection._

 _You can read minds._

 _A mind is not a book. It's so much more complicated than that... but yes, I have the ability to know what you are thinking._

 _But you're not looking at me in the eye._

 _Mycroft trained me enough so I wouldn't need to._

 _Did you even have a childhood?_

 _Everyone has a childhood. Now, I will disconnect this link because it is depleting me._

John feels a small weight remove itself from his brain which makes him realise that that small weight was actually Sherlock's magic being used on him.

A few hours later, the quiet spot Sherlock's father had mentioned turned out to be the same quiet spot Sherlock had told John on the first day they had met and the same quiet spot the two had been spending a lot of time in. To think that Sherlock's own father had been in enough trouble to be given howlers by his own parents amuses John to no end. Like father like son, eh?

As they are finishing their school work, an owl appears with a red letter which opens up. To John's amusement, Sherlock gives out a big breath and opens up the letter with a slight apprehensive look on his face when the letter starts going hotter.

"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES!" the letter yells with a woman's voice. "IF YOU DARED PUT YOUR NAME ON THE LIST OF STUDENTS STAYING AT HOGWARTS FOR CHRISTMAS, I WILL GO ABSOLUTELY MONSTROUS! IF YOU DARE NOT COME HERE, I WILL COME OVER THERE AT THE SCHOOL MYSELF AND GRAB YOU BY THE EAR BEFORE YOU SAY 'CHEMISTRY'."

Suddenly, a man's voice shows up in a normal tone but a loud one nonetheless. "SON, YOUR MOTHER GROWS LIVID DAY AFTER DAY. I THINK IT'S BEST FOR YOU TO ANSWER HER LETTERS NOW, DON'T YOU THINK? SHE JUST WANTS TO KNOW HOW YOU'VE BEEN DOING AT HOGWARTS LATELY. WE BOTH DO."

"YOUR FATHER AND I ALSO WANT TO MEET THAT JOHN WATSON WHOM MYCROFT HAD BEEN TALKING ABOUT TO US. HE SAID HE'S FREE FOR CHRISTMAS?"

"YOUR MOTHER TOLD ME THAT SHE IS NOT TAKING NO FOR AN ANSWER, SHERLOCK."

"QUIET, YOU. I'M NOT GOING TO FORCE THIS JOHN TO COME HERE."

"BUT YOU TOLD ME—"

"SHERLOCK, I KNOW YOU WANT TO EXPLORE THE CASTLE, BUT I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW GLAD WE ARE THAT YOU ARE ALRIGHT... BUT I HAD TO FIND OUT FROM MYCROFT! THERE'S BEEN A LOT OF NEWS—ALL THIS TIME PEOPLE THINKING THE WORST OF YOU, AND YOU HAVEN'T GIVEN US A SINGLE LETTER. WE'RE JUST SO PLEASED IT'S DYING DOWN."

"WRITE UP MORE OFTEN, WON'T YOU? SHE WORRIES."

"PROMISE?"

With that, the letter bursts into flames and turns into ashes.

John whistles, "Well, that was—"

"I know... so, I believe you can come visit us?"

"Sherlock, I—"

"Mother will kill me if you do not come," Sherlock tells him.

"Fine. Fine..." John says with a smile. "William, then?"

"Shut up. I don't call _you_ Hamish," Sherlock retorts.

"How did you—? Never mind," John says after seeing Sherlock with a knowing look in his eyes. Of _course_ , Sherlock knows his middle name. "How long should I be there?"

"It's up to you."

"But why?"

"You're the guest. I do believe they are ecstatic to keep you there for the whole holiday. They will probably corrupt you and give you additional blackmail material concerning me," Sherlock says with a grimace. John laughs. "I do believe you told me you're free for the whole break?"

"Sher—"

"Then it's settled, then. I'll send them a letter later. I also want to thank you, John."

"Thank me?"

"For being there the whole break—you have no idea how annoying my family is. With you there, you will serve as their distraction and so they're attention will divert from me to you. So, indeed, _thank yo_ _u_ ," Sherlock says, mockingly placing a hand on John's shoulder. "I'll go try and find Thorondor or Roäc."

John watches as Sherlock walks away, leaving him without argument. He sees Sherlock look up at the sky, yelling something, and then placing his hands on his head. After a few moments of silent, he sees two birds swoop from the sky and towards the younger teen. He watches Sherlock run away from them with a mighty laugh and the birds both try to catch him.

John shakes his head.

Meanwhile, Sherlock goes to his room in the Ravenclaw Common Room and writes on a piece of parchment.

 _John was exceptionally convinced of  
_ _your howler. Though, I find it  
unnecessary to state my whole name.  
Nevertheless, I believe John appreciates  
it that he will not be spending Christmas  
alone for the first time in years. Thank  
you for helping me conduct and execute  
this whole "I was sent a howler by a  
murderous mother" scheme for John._

 _SH_

When Sherlock receives a letter from his parents' owl, it reads:

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I was not fooling anyone when I said I  
want you to spend Christmas here at the  
manor. I was genuine in saying that I  
would force you here by the ear if you  
don't arrive for the holidays... and we  
really do want to meet John._

 _Love,  
Mum._

Below his mother's slightly scrawly penmanship would be his father's neat hand-writing.

 _Son,_

 _I'm serious. Write up more often, alright?_

 _Dad._

Sherlock sighs and forgets to reply back.

 **—oOo—**

"Sherlock!"

He turns around to see Charles Weasley running to him. "Yes?" he asks.

"Lemnir replied back and he's going to teach me!" Charlie says excitedly.

"Okay..." Sherlock says awkwardly, not really sure why Charles Weasley is informing him of such things.

"Thank you again for this," Charlie says.

"It is Lemnir you have to thank since he deemed you worthy to teach. I merely gave you his address so you can send him a letter," Sherlock says, confused.

Charlie simply chuckles at Sherlock and pats him on the head before walking away with a big grin on his face. He owes that kid one day.

 **—oOo—**

Several detentions later, Snape has finally made his decision to just avoid the younger Holmes so he would not die early from stress and frustration. It also seems to be a pattern that whenever Holmes earns a detention, he is attacked by another student—either subtly brutally like the first time or subtly adroit, which seems to be the usual nowadays.

When questioned, the younger Holmes seems to be content with the arrangement since he is ' _not bothered by the stupid house rivalries anymore, and is not being bothered by more worthy nuisances._ '

Merlin, the younger Holmes is practically the exact opposite of his older brother, Mycroft. The first year he was appointed as the Head of Slytherin House was also the same year Mycroft Holmes had his first year at Hogwarts. He remembers how quick-witted the boy was—the perfect epitome of the Slytherin House.

To say that he was expecting the same thing from the younger Holmes was an understatement. To be perfectly honest, he has been impressed that the student was sorted in all four houses but he takes down his first assumption that Sherlock Holmes will be like his brother.

Although both brothers show a significant amount of intelligence for their age—hell, for anyone, really—Mycroft Holmes uses his intellect as if it is an instrument. There is no underestimation of his intellect, and he uses it for his own advantage. It is a tool that he has earned upon his birth and upbringing.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, has an intellect that seems to be like a demon lurking in his head. He cannot walk away from it. It would be like a burdening gift from his birth. Although he uses it sometimes, it is safe to say that his intellect uses him instead of the other way around like his older brother.

Needless to say, although he understands why this student is like this, he cannot help but lose his composure when being challenged... because it is not challenge for challenge's sake. It is challenge for boredom's sake, and he doesn't like being used as a cope for boredom. He has classes to teach for Merlin's sake.

 **—oOo—**

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock winces at the voice behind them. John, in turn, chuckles at the younger student's reaction as they both turn around to see a woman wearing a rich black cloak (almost similar-looking to what Sherlock is wearing right now) run up to them with open arms.

"Oh no," Sherlock whispers beside him before he is wrapped by the woman's arms.

Sherlock chokes at the hold she has on him as John steps back a bit to make way for the mother-son reunion. He tries not to think about his own depressed mother who is probably enjoying the silent Christmas. He doesn't blame her. He does look a lot like his father and that only upsets his mum a lot. It doesn't help that Harry— _Harriet_ —is drowning herself with booze like their dad did before he stopped himself.

Thinking about it, John supposes that the threat of Voldemort finally managed to stop their dad from drinking and to actually try hard to keep their family from harm.

"You must be John," a man who looks like an older Sherlock says, walking towards them and offering his hand to John.

"Er, yes, sir," John replies, shaking the man's hand.

"I would say that Sherlock has told us all about you, but that would be a lie," Lord Holmes says, making John laugh when he sees Sherlock look at Lord Holmes frustratedly.

"Yes, dear," Lady Holmes says, pulling away from the hug and holding both of Sherlock's shoulders to look at him in the eye, "we told you to write, at least, once a week, and again, you _didn't do as you're told_."

Sherlock sighs. "I was busy."

"Yes, Mycroft told us what you've been up to—adventures to the Forbidden Forest, stealing books from the Restricted Section, a _plethora_ of detentions from your professors. Merlin, your father's been a bad influence on you, I'm sure."

"Now, now, dear," Lord Holmes cuts her off, "I am sure Sherlock's just being adventurous as usual."

"But the _Forbidden Forest_?! You could have been killed! What were you thinking?" Lady Holmes scolds.

"I was thinking of having a fun time," Sherlock replies. To John's amazement, both parents just sigh in defeat.

 **—oOo—**

They disapparate from a hidden corner in King's Cross Station with Lord Holmes holding Sherlock since Sherlock still might be detected of underage magic and Lady Holmes holding John since he has no idea where the Holmes manor is.

They apparate to a forest in the middle of nowhere, confusing John. He tries not to think that the Holmes family is actually there to offer him as a sacrifice or something. He trusts them (for some odd reason), he does... but sometimes, paranoia kicks in.

"Here, John," Lady Holmes says, handing him a piece of paper.

 _The Holmes Manor  
may be found in the Round Copse,  
Salisbury, Wiltshire._ [4]

"I'm honoured," John says in a whisper, clearing his throat, looking at the paper in shock, "that you would let me in in the Fidelius Charm [5], Lord, Lady Holmes..." Unbeknownst to John, the Lord and Lady Holmes share an approving look at that.

John looks up to see the manor and he swallows down his nervousness in being in such a posh place when... he's just... _a commoner_.

To John's surprise, there is a great level of normality in the Holmes manor. Everything is updated from the Muggle World as well as Wizarding World. He'd even admit to saying that this is the most _Half-Blood_ house he has ever seen. It is the perfect combination of muggle and magical.

"You're using electricity," John tells Sherlock.

"No, we're using muggle objects, or what you call _electronics_ , but they are running through magic instead of electronics," Lady Holmes says, walking in front of them beside Lord Holmes.

"How?" John asks.

"Oh just a few modifications here and there. My husband here—" she pats Lord Holmes's shoulder—"made most of the modifications and enchantments."

"Can't have you doing all the work, can I?" he replies.

John smiles at the happy couple in front of them and looks at Sherlock beside him who gives him an exasperated _I-got-to-witness-this-everyday-for-eleven-years-I'm-so-sick-of-it_ look, which only makes John grin wider.

 **—oOo—**

[1] I'm not telling you who this is ;) but he's probably an obvious character...

[2] Quills that write as you dictate.

[3] The Trace is a Charm put on wizards and witches who are under seventeen years of age. The charm allows the Ministry to track underage magic.

[4] The Round Copse (a small group of trees) is near the Langley Wood National Nature Reserve—internationally known for its woodland wildlife. Sherlock would have loved the forest beside his home. This place is located in Salisbury—a medieval cathedral county of Wiltshire. Wiltshire, England is where another canon manor is located.  
( ͡°‿ʖ ͡°) I ain't saying more about the last trivia.

I wanted to find a place with have little to no population and has a forest or something just to make Sherlock's adventures as a kid more realistic. Thankfully, after hours looking around Google Maps, I found a hopefully perfect place.

I originally wanted to place them in Sussex Downs but remembered something from what I had written in the next books so never mind...  
( ͡°‿ʖ ͡°) *wink wink*

[5] According to the wiki, "The Fidelius Charm is an extremely difficult, multifaceted and potent charm that can be used to conceal a secret inside an individual's soul; the witch or wizard who houses the secret is known as the Secret Keeper.

"A dwelling whose location has been protected by this spell is then invisible, intangible, unplottable and soundproof. This is an extremely old spell, one of the most ancient of all."

Due to the Holmes's position between the light and dark side of the war (they are in the middle or grey side of the war), they constantly use the Fidelius Charm for safety reasons.

(This is also why the Holmes Manor is not in Google maps loljk)


	8. (1988) Conversation with the Mentor

****.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _At an unimaginable hour, the sleepless and tired student follows the curious and intrepid student walking in the dark copse to meet an old friend and mentor._**

 _NOTES:_  
 _Sorry this took so long. I've been busy watching "The Crown" in Netflix. I spent Christmas alone with my sister. Just the two of us in another country—away from everyone else. We love our family, of course, but we're both inept with social interactions and we prefer spending time with only each other because other people are just... burdening. We're horribly family members but we just prefer silence and TV shows than people, you know?_

 **—oOo—**

John hadn't actually been sleeping much for reasons unknown—he suspects it's the stress of school, the depression that he isn't spending Christmas with his family _again_ , or his restlessness from needing to do _something_... or a few nightmares here and there...

As he was sitting in the Holmes Manor's living room, he hears the front door creak and instantly grab his wand, only to see that it was Sherlock sneaking out of the house. Obviously, he has nothing left to do but to follow the younger student.

"Do you have your wand?" Sherlock asks, even though he didn't turn around.

He isn't surprised. Sherlock would know he is being followed by him—probably from his footsteps and the weight of each step or something Sherlock had mentioned before.

"Of course," he replies.

"Good. Will you hold this?" Sherlock hands him a torch which John clicks open.

"Sherlock, why are we using a muggle torch? We can just use the Wand-Lightning Charm, you know."

Sherlock sighs. "Magic reliability at its finest," he mumbles. "We're both underaged wizards."

"I thought we won't be affected much since we're in a magical vicinity? Or that wandless magic is not being tracked down by the Ministry?"

"Though we _can_ use the Wand-Lightning Charm, it still requires some effort of concentration—however few—and I don't like either of us with less concentration than is needed. Also, even though _Lumos_ is a simple enough spell, it would be wiser not to use too much of our magic in any form while we're here, don't you think?" Sherlock argues.

"Fair enough," John says. "By the way, why _are_ you here?"

"I always wander around the area at three o'clock in the morning. What were _you_ doing?" Sherlock asks.

"Not much," John replies, walking beside Sherlock as he follows him, unsure where they are heading.

Sherlock looks at him once. "You haven't been sleeping."

"...Right."

"Might as well," Sherlock replies, shrugging, which John is thankful for. "Who knows? We could stumble across another impossible creature, run for our lives, and be scolded later by my parents. They'll give you the worst of it, of course."

"Why me?"

"Because you're older than me. That's the rule."

"Great. I'm the decoy," John breathes and Sherlock smirks.

The two students walk in silence. They look up at the stars above them, with Sherlock expressing the most of his wonder. This made John realise that Sherlock _is_ an eleven-year old _boy_ —an innovative kid with an extremely powerful mind with unusual and scary magical abilities, yes, but a _child_ nonetheless... and John has to think back...

 _He_ is a kid himself. He must have forgotten since he hasn't felt like a child since his father died—since he had had his own wounds from the war—a war he had participated in at the age of _seven_.

John looks at Sherlock once more. He can still see the same energetic first year sitting in the Hospital Wing sporting several wounds, bruises, and cuts. He can still see Sherlock smiling at him with blood all over his face and body. He can still see Sherlock almost falling from the bed whilst sitting up because he has lost his sense of balance and consciousness.

"Shut up," Sherlock suddenly says.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

"...You know—"

"Here we go."

John rolls his eyes. " _You know_ , Sherlock, we haven't talked about what happened a few weeks back."

"A lot has happened a few weeks back," Sherlock replies almost distractedly, looking around the trees as if he hasn't explored this area in his life.

"The part with you being attacked is currently what I have in mind," John replies casually.

"Ahhh, yes, the same event that brought you in a very demanding detention," Sherlock retorts just as casually.

John smiles. "Yes, well, though Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore found it... _vicious_ , they do seem to agree that it was... justified."

"And they think that expulsion is not punishment enough?" Sherlock asks in confusion.

"Sherlock, what they did—they deserve to be in Azkaban for what they've done," John comments. Sherlock hums. "No, seriously, Sherlock."

"I would have thought that limiting their magical education is enough of a punishment," Sherlock mutters.

"You should know more than anyone that anyone can learn anything without a school's influence," John says, making Sherlock hum once more. "So, are you okay?"

"You're asking me if I'm okay from an event that happened weeks ago?"

"Because you always change the topic every time we talk about it."

"Because there's nothing _to_ talk about."

"Charlie and I are pretty close friends, you know?" John says suddenly.

"I would be inclined to believe so—considering that you are his right-hand man in commanding the Quidditch Team. Goodness knows he lets you lead most of the time as well," Sherlock says.

"No, Sherlock. You don't get to distract me with compliments this time... but yeah, Charlie and I are pretty close. He talked to me how you can speak to dragons? I didn't get to ask you about that... with a lot of things going on. So, can you? Speak to dragons, I mean?"

"Yup."

"Charlie said your neighbour taught you, is that right?"

"Yes, we're not so far from his cottage, actually... but he's probably out since I don't see smoke in the sky. He always lights his fireplace at night—whether it's cold or warm. He just does," Sherlock replies with a small smile.

"Can you tell me anything in the Dragon Language?" John asks.

"The thing with Dragon Tongue, it's somehow slightly like Parseltongue. It is an uncommon hereditary skill but easily learned when being taught by a patient mentor. Somehow, it is easier to _ignite_ when faced with the actual being you are supposed to talk to, or an image of the thing you are supposed to talk to," Sherlock says.

"Remind me again when there's a dragon. Hell, Charlie's thinking of going to Romania after Hogwarts to study dragons." Sherlock hums. "...You know... Charlie also told me you used defensive magic on him when he innocently poked your shoulder."

Sherlock pauses for a millisecond but continues walking. No one else would have noticed Sherlock's slip-up, except for those who are observing really carefully... and _John_ is observing _really_ carefully.

"Did he?" Sherlock asks nonchalantly.

"Yup. I don't know about you, Sherlock, but I think that the usual defensive magic only makes the receiver step back by an invisible force. I mean, it happened to the people attacking me a lot of times in the war—" Sherlock looks at John at that point—"I mean, I _was_ a kid. Still, I am not a trained wandless magic user so my defensive magic is not much damaging—helpful, but not damaging. Yours, on the other hand..."

Sherlock keeps silent.

"...you made Charlie hit the other side of the corridor... _hard_. Thankfully, he didn't hit his head too much so there wasn't much damage."

"I wouldn't think so," Sherlock says. "He's been going around with other magical creatures as well as being an active Quidditch player. He would know to shield his head with his hands if he is knocked out of his broom or is sent flying backwards by some force."

"So you admit that you _did_ use some force on him? Some _defensive_ magic on him? Unconsciously?" John asks.

"I don't see why I have to deny it if the facts are well-written?" Sherlock replies.

"Bill and Charlie also told me that you felt that it isn't safe for you to stay in the other common rooms except in the Hufflepuff Common Room? Is that where you've been sleeping?" John asks.

"Yup," Sherlock replies, "despite my initial reluctance, the Hufflepuffs respect my desire to be left alone. They were... pretty considerate—the way they provided me with things I didn't ask them to." Sherlock remembers how some students would knock on his door and won't back down unless he opens it to reveal that they have brought him food since he hasn't left his room for _days_ except when he goes to classes.

"Yeah," John says with a small chuckle, "I actually saw a group of Sixth Year Hufflepuffs walking behind you in a safe distance once. They were looking around as if everyone would attack you."

Sherlock smirks. "They weren't very subtle either."

"They mean well."

"Indeed."

"..."

"..."

"Sherlock, what those bastards did to you—"

"—is done."

" _Sherlock_."

"There's no use in sticking to the past. Getting worked up about it doesn't change anything. What's done is finished. It happened. I survived. I'm fine."

" _Survived_. That word right there—" John gestures by pointing at Sherlock with a humourless and slightly angered smile—"makes all of it wrong. That word says that the effect is worse than you're letting on. Students _cursed_ you, Sherlock. They levitated you upside-down, remove the spell so you hit the floor and do it over and over again while they're throwing countless of things at you. Sherlock, that's not—that's not _good_."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. " _Of course_ , I know that's not good, and I never said I do not acknowledge its effects..." Slowly and in an almost dreamy tone, he starts, "I am merely stating that dwelling on them will not solve anything. It is a distraction and one I cannot afford to bury myself with."

Sherlock's slow words and lost eyes—it reminds John of Sherlock's current distraction: the stars, and the silence of the trees. Sherlock, in turn, glances at John who is now looking up at the silent dark sky.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock asks, looking at the stars once more, marvelling at the twinkling celestial bodies.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that," John mumbles, awed at the sky full of stars himself.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

They were both silent.

"Sherlock? Is that you?"

Both boys turn around at the sudden voice behind them. John sees a man in his twenties holding a bunch of firewood in his arms. The dark-haired man is wearing a blue sweater, a red scarf, and a brown jacket, and giving Sherlock a huge grin.

"Lemnir!" Sherlock exclaims, shaking his hand slowly since his arms are occupied with the firewood.

 _So, this is the famous Lemnir_ , John thinks.

"You've grown!" Lemnir comments.

"Dear Lord, you sound like an _old man_ when you say that," Sherlock replies and Lemnir laughs.

"Hello, are you from Hogwarts, too?" Lemnir asks John.

"Yes, sir," John replies proudly. "I'm John Watson, Mister Lemnir," he says, offering his hand.

"None of that _sir_ and _mister_ business." Lemnir smiles, shaking John's hand and looking at him intently from up to down. "Are you, by any chance, Geoffrey Watson's son [1]?" Lemnir asks.

"You know my dad?" John asks.

Lemnir shakes his head. "Not personally, no... but he was part of the Order of the Phoenix, I heard." John nods in confirmation.

"Were _you_?" Sherlock asks.

Lemnir shakes his head. "I was told not to interfere."

"By whom?" John asks.

Lemnir pauses. "By my father," he replies. Sherlock knows this is a lie and he also knows that this is a lie for John's sake. "He died, too."

"I'm sorry," John says.

Lemnir shakes his head. He starts walking pass them, still carrying some firewood. John grabs some of the firewood to help Lemnir with the load—of which Lemnir is grateful for. He starts to follow Lemnir whilst Sherlock follows them from behind.

Slowly, Lemnir states, "War has casualties. Some are considered great and some are considered small, but the impact will _always_ be great, no matter how small someone's part in the war had been." John hums. "So, what house were you sorted in at Hogwarts?"

"He's a Gryffindor," Sherlock tells Lemnir, "and I'm a Ravenclaw."

"Are you?" Lemnir asks Sherlock with a knowing grin. John smirks as well.

"You've... read the news," Sherlock says, sighing dejectedly.

"The whole of the Wizarding World knows you're the new _Merlin_ , Sherlock," Lemnir tells Sherlock with a small smirk.

"And they are _so_ wrong," Sherlock replies.

"Hold on, _you two_ , why are you both in the middle of the forest at four o'clock in the morning?! Don't you know it's dangerous out here?!" Lemnir scolds them. "You are _both_ underage."

"I've been asking him that for an hour," John replies, shaking his head and giving Sherlock a disapproving look.

"Your parents are going to be worried sick if they wake up to both of you gone!" Lemnir exclaims.

"No, they won't," Sherlock replies cooly.

"Yes, they will," John argues with Lemnir nodding in agreement. Sherlock sighs.

"I was in the House Library, playing the violin—sound-proofing charm," Sherlock says the last part when he sees John about to ask him, "and I saw you pass by, looking at the manor," he tells Lemnir. "I was about to follow you immediately but, on the way down, I also saw that father's office door was open."

"Did you steal anything?" John asks conversationally, much to Lemnir's amusement.

"There were no new additions to father's office since I last broke in—which was four months ago. No, unfortunately, I _didn't_ steal anything," Sherlock replies, making John chuckle.

"So, to be clear, it's my fault you're here, then?" Lemnir says, rolling his eyes.

"Well, you've been gone for three years." John adds this to his _things-Sherlock-never-told-me-about_ folder. "I have a lot of questions concerning all the new information I obtained at Hogwarts..." A long pause. "...Have you been in Gloucestershire [2] all this time?" Sherlock asks.

"Of course," Lemnir replies in a very sad tone.

"Why are you back?" Sherlock asks.

"I started to miss this old place..."

"Enough to leave the Forest of Dean [2]?" Sherlock asks with a raised brow.

Lemnir flinches at that. "That place had been... depressing me a bit again." John hums, knowing how that feels like. He doesn't think he can go to Godric's Hollow either—since that is where he and his father had resided in before his death. [1]

"I didn't think you'd leave it," Sherlock comments, shrugging.

"Sherlock," John warns since he can see Lemnir grow visibly upset.

"It's not time yet," Lemnir replies. "Even eight years ago, nothing happened [3]. I doubt anything will happen right now. A small visit doesn't hurt." Before John gets to ask what the hell these two are talking about, Lemnir explains, "Here we are. Home sweet home."

John stares at the small cottage with a raised brow. The old and worn bungalow doesn't seem to fit the youth of Lemnir—despite being in his probably late twenties.

"This is where you live?" John asks Lemnir who smiles sheepishly.

"I know. I know. It doesn't look that great but—I don't know—I like it," Lemnir explains with a shrug. Sherlock snorts. "It reminds me of my old home—without the sadness."

"The home in Gloucestershire?" Sherlock asks.

Lemnir shakes his head solemnly. "My home in Yelvertoft, Northampton [4]," he corrects.

"You mean, Northamptonshire [4]?" John asks.

"Er, yeah," Lemnir says, nodding. He opens the door to the cottage and gestures for John to enter. Sherlock follows behind him.

John notices that the inside seems to be much more well-kept than its exterior.

As John places the firewood in the corner with a high stack of firewood, he looks around the cottage. On the shelves, there are thousands of bottles—Potions—and other objects that are most likely to be magical artefacts.

There are some papers and parchment scattered and pinned on the walls of the cottage—dates seems to be written on them, with corresponding events under each date. John and Sherlock both look around the place whilst Lemnir deals with the fireplace.

"What's all this?" John asks, gesturing at the parchments.

"Oh, just, er... History," Lemnir replies, "I'm... I'm studying it."

"Wizard _and_ Muggle History?" John asks, looking at some dates. [5]

"Er, yeah," Lemnir replies, "it's good to keep track of the past. People can learn from it so they won't make the same mistake twice... So far, society's not doing a good job."

John laughs. Sherlock, who had grown bored of the parchments and conversations about history, has gone off to the shelves with the Potions—inspecting each and every one of them as closely as only Sherlock can do.

John walks up to Lemnir to talk to him alone and quietly, knowing that Sherlock is probably to busy to listen to such boring conversation.

"So, how long have you known Sherlock?" John asks.

"I was their babysitter—him and Mycroft. I just turned seventeen and I really needed a job since, you know, I've been alone. Lord and Lady Holmes were happy to hire me as a babysitter for ten-year old Mycroft and one-year old Sherlock. To my surprise, Mycroft already mastered wandless magic and Sherlock, at a year old, is able to do small amounts of wandless magic. I already knew those two were going to be brilliant," Lemnir replies with a smile.

"I didn't know Sherlock had much... friends," John says sheepishly. "I'm not saying that Sherlock is the kind not to have friends but a lot of people told me—"

"I was just considered as his babysitter, but I'm more of a mentor than a babysitter—okay, that makes me sound old." John laughs. "Anyway, even though I helped him with some of the magic stuff, I still played with a more childish Sherlock. I want Sherlock and I to be friends but he probably doesn't see it that way."

"I'm sure you are," John says, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "Sherlock just has... trouble explaining his feelings." Lemnir hums in agreement. "I see your point, though... but since he had mentioned you to other people, that _means_ something—coming from Sherlock, especially."

"He mentioned me to you?" Lemnir asks in surprise.

"Well, technically, no, but he mentioned you to Charlie and he and I are friends."

"Ahhh yes, Charles Weasley," Lemnir says with a nod. "So, you know about the Dragon Language thing."

"Yeah! How did you learn that?" John asks.

"Well, I was mostly homeschooled, although I know enough that I'm a Slytherin—which I hope is fine with you?"

"I'm not one of the prejudiced ones."

"I didn't think you would be—considering that Sherlock made you his friend. He hates the prejudiced ones because he said they're—"

"—stupid, yeah." They both laugh as they stare at the boy in question, holding vials and comparing them to each other.

"Anyway," Lemnir continues, "I learned a different type of magic from travelling around the world... w-with my father. It's how I learned Dragon Language—f-from a book, and my father knows how to speak it so he helped. The process of translating was difficult, I can admit, but it was all worth it. I'm so happy to know that Dragon Language can be taught since the skill was actually hereditary—like Parseltongue, but one can still imitate and learn it. The difference is that serpents, or in this case, _dragons_ , have a stronger allegiance to dragonlords—or those who were born with the Dragon Tongue—since they also have the ability to tame dragons and some other kinds of magic that only they can do... Dragon Language is just like any other language, really."

"That's amazing," John says, "and you taught Sherlock?"

"Well, he caught me talking to a dragon and so I taught him. He's a quick learner."

"What about Mycroft?" John asks.

Lemnir hesitates. "I have... a bit of feeling that Mycroft has the capability to be the most powerful man of Alb—Britain [6]." Lemnir sighs. "I have some fear of what he could do to the power of learning the language of the dragons. There is some hesitation in me when Sherlock asked to be taught but I saw his intention was the mere excitement of learning how to speak it rather than finding the benefits of having some control with dragons. I'm actually trying to do all I can to free the dragon being used as a guard in—" he stops.

"In?" John asks. Lemnir only smiles and looks at the clock on the wall.

"Look, you two," Lemnir starts, standing and taking the vials in Sherlock's hands (making Sherlock protest), "as much as I like seeing you again, Sherlock, and meeting you, John... It's ten minutes to five, and I don't really fancy my head being chopped off from my body. No offence, Sherlock, but your mother, Lady Holmes, is really... er..."

"Scary and probably the mother of the devil?" Sherlock suggests.

"Well, that's not what I—"

"—but that's what she _is_ ," Sherlock says with a smile.

"Mother of the devil?" John asks. "Which one of you is it?"

"Mycroft, of course," Sherlock answers without hesitation. "I mean, I'm an angel."

John laughs out loud—making Sherlock frown, offended. Lemnir smiles at the interaction of the two since it reminds him of—no, not going there [3].

"Well, you two better go. She'll kill all of us if you're not back at the manor," Lemnir advices, leading them out of the house. He stops by the doorway as Sherlock and John walk past him.

"It was nice meeting you, Lemnir," John says, shaking Lemnir's hand once more.

"Likewise... and it's nice seeing you again, Sherlock," Lemnir says, ruffling Sherlock's hair—making Sherlock growl. "Sorry. Sorry. I forgot how much you value your curls."

"Let's see how much you value your life," Sherlock threats. Lemnir laughs at the murderous look on Sherlock's face. John shakes his head in amused exasperation, pulling Sherlock's elbow to lead him back to the Holmes Manor.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looks back at the cottage to nod at Lemnir who, in turn, nods back in farewell.

 **—oOo—**

"John," he greets.

"Mycroft," he greets back.

"Why is _he_ here?" Sherlock complains.

"I'm here every year, brother dear." Mycroft sneers, putting his coat on the coatrack beside the fireplace. "Did I not say that this would have been the most silent Christmas dinner this manor has ever had if you had not been... convinced?"

"Oh no—"

"I am so _pleased_ to get a letter in return stating your final decision to come back home for Christmas... _and_ with a friend! Very pleased, indeed!" Lady Holmes explains.

"This is your fault, Mycroft. You started the rambling," Sherlock mutters so only John and Mycroft can hear him. John chuckles at the smug look on Mycroft's face, earning him a betrayed look from Sherlock.

"I wouldn't think my heart would have taken it if you had stayed! It's only your first year at Hogwarts! You have six more years to spend Christmas there!" she continues.

"Yes, well, Hogwarts is a place of... _threat_ and _violence_."

" _Mycroft_ ," both Sherlock and John hiss since both had established not to tell the Lord and Lady Holmes of what had transpired a few weeks ago.

"Yes, I heard about that," Lord Holmes starts and Sherlock stops breathing. "Kids and violence, eh? I couldn't believe it myself that five students were expelled all at once. Hogwarts rarely expels anyone. The Daily Prophet didn't say what happened either. Sherlock, John, you must have heard something?"

"The faculty hid it well," Sherlock lies smoothly.

Lord Holmes hums. "I suppose they would."

"Well, it's good that you're home. If there are kids like that roaming around Hogwarts—and older years, too! They could hurt you," Lady Holmes says with concern.

John and Sherlock share a look at that—John looks at Sherlock with concern whist Sherlock looks at John, hiding a laugh but drops it when he sees the serious concern on John's face. Mycroft keeps being straight-faced as to not show anything.

"I wonder how they managed to hush it all up," Lord Holmes says.

"Yes," Sherlock says, briefly glancing at Mycroft, "I wonder how."

"The students' parents must have tried to hush it up to avoid more scandal," Mycroft replies. "It's not uncommon in the Ministry."

"Hmm, perhaps."

 **—oOo—**

"Where's John?"

"Finally asleep."

" _You_ should be asleep _and_ back at the manor."

"It's already three o'clock in the morning—I already woke up."

A pause.

"John doesn't have a clue who I am, does he?" Lemnir asks.

"No."

"And Mycroft?"

"Still suspects, but he has most likely concluded it years ago—you know how he is—but he has not done any immediate action as of now so there is a great chance that he will keep your identity hidden. It probably stands with his—I don't know—ministry position or whatever."

"I suppose... and your parents?"

"Not a clue—as always."

"That's good, then... Now, I just have to ask: this Charlie fellow—"

"He doesn't know who you are either, just that you're our neighbour and that you can speak to dragons... as do I."

"Sherlock, I told you to keep that ability hidden."

"I was under the influence of too many potions... even _I_ can't stay on my feet with that great amount of remedies!"

"I don't blame you, nor am I accusing you... Just... be careful... alright?" Lemnir breathes, leaning back on the armchair. "So, you're the only ones who are aware of my true identity—you and Mycroft."

Sherlock nods, sipping from the tea. "Yes. You're not really subtle either."

"Believe me: I'm just as surprised as anyone is that I managed to survive Camelot in King Uther's reign," Lemnir— _Merlin_ —says with a laugh [7]. "He would have had me beheaded if he found out that I have magic."

"I still find it hilarious that the Great and Powerful Merlin had been a servant to King Arthur... and that you have always been depicted as an old man despite your immortal age of twenty-seven."

Merlin laughs. "Just you wait 'til you're older, Sherlock. There'll be portraits of you, too: Sherlock Holmes, the new Merlin of the Modern Era."

"I'd think Harry Potter is more deserving of that title—despite only gaining power from his mother's sacrifice and from Voldemort's stupidity."

"Why? What else would you have done?" Merlin asks.

"I would have picked up the _toddler_ and throw him out of the window—it would have had a much more effective result. Voldemort's too magically dependent."

Merlin snorts. "People underestimate the magicless," he says solemnly.

"Have people always been this way?"

"Dramatic? Yes. It's human nature, Sherlock. People fear what they don't understand."

"Then why don't they search for the answers of their questions rather than fearing their lack of understanding of them?"

"Not all people are as brave as you, Sherlock—" Sherlock sulkily mumbles about not being a being a _bloody_ Gryffindor—"and not all people have courage enough to face their fears. Not everyone seeks knowledge, Sherlock, and would prefer fearing and unaware... What do you fear, Sherlock? If you were to face a Boggart, right now, what would it show?"

"...I don't know..."

"Would you want to find out?"

"Perhaps."

Merlin pauses. "See? That's the proof right there. You're willing to face your Boggart—your _fear_ —to know and to _understand_ what it is and why it is what it is. Others would have rejected the idea of facing a Boggart."

The two brilliant warlocks stay in silence for a while, finding peace in the quiet.

"Do you have your violin with you?" Merlin asks.

"What do you want me to play?"

"Anything, really... What do you play for John?"

"Nothing as of yet. We are often out when we're together. There isn't time to stay in one place when there's a forest full of unimaginable creatures. When I'm in my sombre mood, I play, yes, but I am without company since John is a busy student as well."

"He is an achiever. I would think he'd make a good Slytherin—the fact that he has a lot of ambition... though he probably would have wanted to be in Gryffindor since his father is sorted there... Not to mention his bravery is astounding... So, Sherlock, violin? Shall I conjure it for you?"

"No. No. No need. I've been practicing."

Sherlock jumps up from his seat and places his hands in front of him with his palms facing forward. He closes his eyes and summons his violin by conjuring it in front of him. He keeps his mouth closed as he concentrates hard whilst maintaining a peaceful mind.

He opens his eyes and thinks of the conjuring spell.

To his excitement, his violin case starts to fade in in appearance—mid-air. Merlin manages to catch it on time when it completely materialises and falls from the where it appeared.

Giving out a mighty breath, Sherlock falls back on the armchair behind him, panting, sweating, and completely out of breath as if he had just run five miles nonstop.

"You shouldn't abuse your magic like that, Sherlock," Merlin reprimands. "I'm proud of you—of course—that you managed the spell." He grins widely, handing Sherlock the violin case. "I knew you were lying about practicing it. You wouldn't be so exhausted after a few more tries of the spell—it might be difficult to do but I know you. You would have mastered it as quickly as I did..."

"Probably faster," Sherlock teases.

"Oh _please_ , the _new Merlin_ will never beat the _original_ Merlin." Merlin smiles. "I'll get you some Strengthening Solution [8]."

Merlin raises his hand and a vial which contains a turquoise potion flies into his palm without as much as a sound—as if it did not just slam into his hand. Merlin hands it to Sherlock who studies the vial instead of drinking the solution inside it.

"You _have_... to teach... me that."

"Summoning?" Merlin asks and Sherlock nods. "Surely you can do wandless magic with a simple _Accio_? I have no doubt you can do that wandlessly and nonverbally as well?"

Sherlock nods. "It's the one... out of... a few that... I've mastered... already—"

"So ambitious."

"—but _Accio..._ is so different... from what you... just did... The farther... the distance—the... greater the rate of... change of velocity... I... experimented... on _Accio_... quite a few times... and I had tried to... find the best way... to lessen the... summoned object's force... when it is faced... with a barrier... I have not been... successful... So how'd... you do it?"

"Three things: One, I do not use your _modernised_ magic. Two, I don't really use an incantation most of the time. Three, your magic comes out differently from my own. To explain that further, in my _original_ time, magic comes out from the eyes instead of one's hands. Users of magic use the language of the Old Religion to get the results they needed. We had no wands, of course, but they still need a booster—incantations—whether it is nonverbal or verbal—magic users _need_ incantations."

"Except you..."

"Yes, except me. I had thrown an army backwards—killing them all—without as much as a blink or a thought. I did what I had to do because I do not _have_ magic. I _am_ magic. I am human but I am magic as well."

"Is that why you... are seen as... the God of the... Wizard Com... Community?"

"I have no idea where that nonsense came from!"

"Well you are both... human... and magic... That's kind of... a big deal... in this world."

"Sherlock—"

"Just... reminding you... I don't suppose you... can teach me... anything to... help me... with this?"

"I _had_ been teaching you."

"Yes... _three_ years... ago... and that was... Dragon Language."

"I helped you and Mycroft with the process of wandless magic, and I gave you tips to learn nonverbal magic... but you're pushing it too much despite having three years to learn it. It still takes time."

"You _have_... to teach me... Ancient Magic."

" _It's not that ancient_!" Merlin defends.

"No one uses it... except you and... you're... what? a thousand and... four?... five?... centuries old... Give or take... a few decades..." [9]

"Fine. I'll teach you magic of the Old Religion..."

"YES!"

"Now drink your Strengthening Solution. You're still sweating and panting from magic depletion and now you've gone paler, too! Take two doses." He raises a hand once more to summon another vial which stops in his hand without breaking.

 **—oOo—**

"I cannot believe you three!" Lady Holmes scolds the child genius, the teenage war hero, and the recent-adult British government. "Roaming around the forest at midnight! You could have been eaten! You could have been killed! You could have been _kidnapped_! Who knows what horrors are waiting out there in the dark!" she shrieks.

"Dear," Lord Holmes says, calming her down by placing a hand on her elbow. Lady Holmes calms at the touch and sighs.

She glares at the three boys on the couch with Sherlock sitting in the middle, John on Sherlock's right, and Mycroft on Sherlock's left.

"I cannot express how dangerous it is out there. It doesn't matter that you—" she glares at Sherlock—"can summon a dragon with a few words and that you are halfway to completely mastering nonverbal wandless magic, and that you—" she glares at John—"have fought in the war as a _child_ and that you are a proficient healer and dueller, and that you—" she finally glares at Mycroft—"are slowly gaining control of the whole Ministry of Magic and climbing up the ranks in the muggle British Government."

Sherlock and John raise a brow at the last part.

"It doesn't matter if you can do all those things because once you are captured, once you are taken off guard—there is no telling of what they can do to you!"

"Who?"

" _Sherlock_ ," both John and Mycroft hiss.

"The Death Eaters! The followers of He-Who-Must—o-of _Voldemort_!" Lady Holmes spits the last word. "They are still out there and they are still suspicious of where our loyalties are, and one hint from any of you—" she says mostly to Sherlock and John—"will be this family's downfall."

"Lemnir lives near the area we were in," Sherlock insists.

"Sherlock, he is just a _young adult_ who kept an eye on you whenever your father and I attended some balls. He may be an adult with more experience from travelling but he is still _one man_ ," she counters. "Just, boys, stop running away. Sherlock, avoid going out for too long in the middle of the night. I don't want to see you hurt again, okay?"

"Yes, mummy... I'm sorry," Sherlock says full of regret and guilt, making John look at Sherlock in surprise.

"Good boy." Lady Holmes smiles, hugging Sherlock. Sherlock winks at John from behind his mother's back.

 _Of course_ , John thinks to himself, struggling to hide a snort. He looks forward only to see Lord Holmes sharing a knowing look with Mycroft.

 **—oOo—**

[1] Geoffrey Freeman is Martin Freeman's father. It's only fitting since Martin's middle name is John... OH MY GOD I JUST FOUND OUT THAT GEOFFREY FREEMAN DIED IN 1981. I did not expect that at all. Holy shit. My version of John's parents is almost accurate with Martin's parents... and I didn't even know it.

Geoffrey Freeman is a naval officer whilst Geoffrey Watson is part of the Order of the Phoenix so yeah... I separated John's parents because of the drinking and whole you-didn't-tell-me-about-magic thing. Apparently, Martin's parents also separated when he was young. I also made John live with his father when his parents separated since his dad would have wanted him to learn more about magic (kinda why John managed to use intentional wandless magic for a bit).

I'm not sure where to write the whole story of John's past though.

I mean no disrespect but I was just surprised at the accidental parallelism of my writing.

[2] The Forest of Dean is in Gloucestershire, England. Particularly, Lemnir (Merlin) had been residing near the Speech House Lake (which may be the same lake they filmed the Lake of Avalon) is. I have looked at some maps of CAMELOT (Yes, I can finally reveal that), and it is around the Forest of Dean where the Lake of Avalon should be.

[3] Arthur and Merlin are the greatest of friends... like John and Sherlock, really...

In BBC's Merlin, Merlin was told to wait for King Arthur since he is destined to rise again from the Lake of Avalon (in this fic, the Lake in the Forest of Dean—the same lake where Harry got Gryffindor's sword to destroy the locket) when Albion is in need.

[4] Literally just now, I had photoshopped the Map of Albion (England in Camelot times) on top of the current Map of England to pinpoint exact locations of places in Camelot in current times.

Northamptonshire (ARCHAICALLY known as Northampton) is apparently where Ealdor (village where Merlin grew up) is. The dot is placed somewhere in Yelvertoft.

[5] They aren't just random dates. Those are dates where great events took place and Merlin was present in every one of them. Wars are probably there. Empires falling are probably there—EVERYTHING.

[6] Albion is the oldest known name of the island of Great Britain.

[7] YAS I CAN FINALLY SAY THIS. Merlin (BBC's Merlin) is just a minor character in this fic. He will pop out now and again in this series but that's just it. He's a guest star of this series lol. I mean, even before BBC Merlin, I have always been interested with the story of Merlin and Arthur but I like the BBC show so I'm gonna use that.

[8] The thing about the Strengthening Solution came from the wiki.

[9] Wikipedia says: "King Arthur is a legendary British leader who, according to medieval histories and romances, led the defence of Britain against Saxon invaders in the late 5th and early 6th centuries AD."

In this fic and in BBC's Merlin, Merlin is younger than Arthur for around a year or something.


	9. (1989) Year One Last Events

****.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _As the newly-attacked student struggles to continue his time at the very premises where he was attacked, his own body keeps betraying him in more ways than one._**

 _NOTES:_  
 _Sorry for the delay, guys... I had to finish Series 4 first before writing more... just to add more things in this fic... MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD, my friends..._

 **—oOo—**

It's Day Three of the first school week of Hogwarts in 1989. Last Tuesday, the students had returned from their Christmas holidays in order to get back to school on Wednesday. _Six more months_ , Sherlock thinks, _six more months until the summer holidays_.

He has always hated his home—no, not _hated_ since he will always love his home, but definitely feeling _something_. After someone—or something—or—or—what was it he was thinking? Never mind that.

Thankfully, today is raining—and Sherlock always loved the rain.

 **—oOo—**

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock," John says the moment he sees Sherlock in the Great Hall, sitting alone in the Ravenclaw Table—alone meaning that there is a gap in the Ravenclaw Table where Sherlock is—about two seats away from everyone else.

This seems to happen to all the tables Sherlock decides to sit with... but he never sits in the Gryffindor Table. Sherlock never initiates sitting there—apparently, he doesn't like the noise of the Gryffindors but if he asked, he wouldn't just abandon John either. John smiles fondly at the thought.

Sherlock looks up from his book in surprise just as some of the other Ravenclaws look at John in curiosity of his words and looking at Sherlock, who, in turn, tries to get out of people's attention.

"It's not my birthday," Sherlock replies.

"It's the sixth of January. Of course, it's your birthday."

"Is it?" Sherlock asks in surprise, grabbing the Daily Prophet nearest to him on the table to see that it is, in fact, the sixth of January. "Oh," he says.

"You didn't know it was your own birthday?" John asks, frowning.

"No."

"Why don't you?"

"Why do _you_?"

"Mycroft."

Sherlock grimaces. "He must have hinted it. Wait. No," he says, looking at John's face intently, "you _asked_ him." He sighs pointedly at the sentence as if someone had told him they wouldn't be going to the circus because it was cancelled.

"Well, it was a question of importance," John explains.

"Why would it be a question of importance?"

John looks at Sherlock for a small time with other Ravenclaws watching the scene play out in front of them. John merely shakes his head, a dejected smile on his face, as he looks down—making Sherlock frown in confusion.

"... ... ... So you _really_ didn't know it was your birthday?"

"Too busy to notice," Sherlock says with a shrug, looking back at his book.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" John replies.

"If you're referring to a birthday celebration, I would be inclined to tell you that that is a horrible idea... unless you give me a... a dog."

"A... dog?" John asks in surprise. "Sherlock, you have a raven, and an eagle... and apparently, you also have a spider and a snake... and now you want a dog?"

"Roäc and Thorondor have lives of their own. The spider, Arana [1], and the snake, Salmissra [2], are occasional companions in the Forbidden Forest. No, actually, we are barely companions since I often only stumble across either of them and wander around as we talk. I have not earned their complete trust as of yet and neither do they mine... and... and I've always liked dogs," Sherlock finishes quietly, if John was to believe that Sherlock is capable of doing that.

Is... Is Sherlock burying his face on his book?

"Yeah, I was told," John says, sitting down on the empty seat beside Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock asks, his book falling on his lap, his eyes staring hard on the table in front of him, his hands twitching violently.

"Lemnir—he mentioned something about you, liking dogs... and something about Redbeard? I don't know..."

Sherlock doesn't reply and keeps staring at the table hard, concentrating, with his book on his lap.

"Sherlock?" John asks. Some of the Ravenclaws beside them start to whisper at the sudden mood between the two. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I—I don't know," Sherlock replies quietly, blinking profusely. "W—what are we talking about?" he asks, his hands trembling in fear with self-doubt. Sherlock raises his hands and looks at it in confusion—so do John and the other Ravenclaws.

"We were talking about Lemnir and about you, liking dogs, Sherlock," John says quietly with concern growing from the deepest part of his heart.

"Lemnir and a dog, yes," Sherlock says, nodding.

"Wasn't Redbeard a pirate?" another Ravenclaw first-year says.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asks the Ravenclaw.

"Redbeard."

"Red—" Sherlock shakes his head to clear out the buzzing in his head.

"Memory charm," a fourth-year Ravenclaw boy in front of Sherlock says.

"What?" Sherlock asks.

"You have a memory charm placed on you," he tells them, rolling his eyes.

"How? When?" John asks.

Sherlock blinks profusely. "Obviously. Who are you?" Sherlock asks.

"Philip Anderson," he answers, "and as for how and when? How the hell should I know?"

"You're useless," Sherlock grumbles, making the fourth-year protest but stopped by another Ravenclaw who tells him that it's useless to argue with Sherlock.

"I—er... Is there a way to remove this?" John asks concernedly. "Sherlock, we have to get you to Madame Pomfrey."

" _No_ ," Sherlock says firmly.

" _Sherlock_." Sherlock shakes his head. "A professor, then," John says.

"I heard Professor Snape's an expert on the human mind," Anderson adds.

" _No_ ," Sherlock says, shaking his head and rubbing his face plenty of times.

"We have to get this Memory Charm off of you," John reasons.

"Perhaps it was placed there for a reason," another Ravenclaw suggests.

"Pardon?" John asks.

"Maybe it was placed there not out of spite, but out of kindness and convenience," she replies.

"If it is a kindness of a gesture he or she wanted to commit, a removal of a memory is the biggest insult to ever be done unto me," Sherlock says lowly.

Breathing heavily, Sherlock takes out his wand from his pockets and holds it out in front of him.

"Sherlock?" John asks. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to remove the memory charm."

"You can't! You know you can't!" John warns, alarming the other students.

"It's an easy enough spell," Sherlock replies.

"It's a N.E.W.T. level spell," Anderson points out. "You can't do it."

Sherlock snappily looks at Anderson, who unfortunately looks back, and hits him with Legilimency. He simply tells Anderson, through his mind.

 _Yes, I can._

Anderson, swallowing, quickly looks away in slight fear of the curly-haired prodigy.

"Sherlock, you _can't_."

"I can."

"You _shouldn't_."

"Why not?" Sherlock challenges.

John pointedly looks at the wand on Sherlock's hand as an answer. Sherlock merely raises a brow in return. Sighing, John whispers to him, "I thought you can't use a wand unless you want collateral damage?"

"Quiet," Sherlock demands. With his wand raised up and his other hand's palm facing forward—as if he is praying to the gods above, he opens his eyes and places the wand below him, the tip touching below his chin.

"That's not—" someone tries to argue but was overpowered by John's exclamation.

" _Sherlock!_ " John yells in alarm, standing up and placing his hands in front of him—a gesture that usually shows to calm the person receiving said gesture. Sherlock understands this but he is not the opposite of calm. Well, he is—a little bit—but he's not doing this out of some emotional trauma.

Unfortunately, his fellow Ravenclaws had also been alarmed from John's mannerisms—most of the professors and the students surrounding them are now trying to calm Sherlock down. Sherlock can hear whispers about a suicide attempt but he must concentrate on the matter at hand.

If this is a charm placed upon him, the only logical thing to do is to use a counter-charm... and he will.

" _Finite Incantatem,_ " Sherlock says out loud.

With that, a giant bright red light blasts from his wand [3], knocking Sherlock off the bench, and everyone and everything else flying too far backwards (the most who took the brunt of the blast are mostly Ravenclaws, the unfortunate Hufflepuffs, and the amount of china and utensils within the giant radius around Sherlock whilst the others are thrown back from their benches—still harshly and violently)—all hitting the ground. The castle itself shakes from the powerful amount of magic emitted.

Everyone starts shouting in a panic but John pays no mind to this since his eyes are locked on only one thing.

John quickly stands up to the ground and runs to Sherlock's limp form, shaking him fervently.

"Sherlock?! _Sherlock_?"

"What happened here?!" cries Professor McGonagall. All of the professors had stood up from the High Table and had, apparently, run towards John and the limp form of Sherlock, who is starting to wake.

Sherlock moans from the floor whilst Madame Pomfrey crouches down to check on him. She moves her wand above Sherlock and a piece of paper is conjured in front of her with a list with words appearing on them. Madame Pomfrey tuts at what she is reading.

 **—oOo—**

 **Date:** January 6, 1989

 **William Sherlock Scott Holmes  
** **Age:** 12  
 **Birthday:** January 6, 1977  
 **Gender:** Male  
 **Blood(s):** Wizard  
 **Batch:** 1988 First Year  
 **House(s):** Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff  
 **Parent(s):** Lord Siger Timothy Holmes, The Duke of Cumberland [4][5], and Lady Margaret Lydia Violet Holmes (née Sherrinford), The Duchess of Cumberland [6]  
 **Sibling(s):** LordMycroft Holmes, The Marquess of Wigtown [7], ▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓ [8] **  
 **Title(s):**** The Earl of Anglesey [9], the New Merlin

 **Condition(s):**  
Magic Core Expenditure—from 100 to 68.  
Bone Contusion in Right Tibia.  
Subperiosteal hematoma in Right Humerus.  
Strangled breathing from Physical Trauma to the body.  
Contusions on the back, arms, and legs.  
Slight Concussion.  
Hand Tremor from Poorly Casted Cruciatus Curse.

 **—oOo—**

John, looking around, finally sees that the floating candles are all falling down from the ceiling and that the ceiling itself has lost its usual enchantment and is visible instead of the usual sky it would have mimicked. Thankfully, the professors had probably placed a powerful shield charm between the students and the ceiling to prevent more candles from falling over their heads.

"Please continue to check on Mr Holmes, Madame Pomfrey," Dumbledore whispers so as not to be heard by the others. "I believe that the Protective Wards around Hogwarts had fallen. Severus, Minerva, Filius, Pomona, please come with me."

The five professors run out of the Great Hall whilst the other professors try to handle the fiasco with the panicking students.

"Wh't... h'pp'ned?" Sherlock asks with a slur.

"You depleted your magical energy, Mr Holmes," Madame Pomfrey says [4].

"'m s'rry," he slurs before collapsing once more, angry at the weakness and betrayal of his body.

"He must be brought to the Hospital Wing," Madame Pomfrey states.

"I'll bring him," John says, lifting Sherlock and carrying him, despite blinking profusely from a headache and his terribly aching body.

 **—oOo—**

"I should place a bed with your name on it, Mr Holmes," is the first thing he hears when his eyes open. Madame Pomfrey's kind but dangerously stern face appears in front of his eyes.

"H'spit'l W'ng," he mumbles, trying to sit up but someone pushes him down.

"You exhaust'd yours'lf magic'lly, Sherl," he hears John say above him.

 _Oh so it's John pushing me down, then_ , he thinks.

"H'w l'ng?" Sherlock asks.

"You've been out f'r 'round less th'n half 'n hour," John replies quietly.

"Oh."

"I've never seen such a phenomenon for _years_ ," Madame Pomfrey states.

"Neither have we," Professor McGonagall says from the door.

They all turn to see all five professors—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout—standing by the door, looking at Sherlock with concern.

"Professors," John says quietly, standing up from Sherlock's bed where he had been sitting, but quickly sitting himself back again.

"Alright, Watson, I will _not_ be hearing anything from you. I _will_ be checking you," Madame Pomfrey says.

John grumbles but complies—making some of the professors laugh a bit. Madame Pomfrey waves her wand over a very slurry John and it pops out.

 **—oOo—**

 **Date:** January 6, 1989

 **John Hamish Watson  
** **Age:** 14  
 **Birthday:** March 31, 1974 [10]  
 **Gender:** Male  
 **Blood(s):** Wizard, Muggle  
 **Batch:** 1985 Fourth Year  
 **House(s):** Gryffindor  
 **Parent(s):** HubertGeoffrey Watson, Order of Merlin (First Class) [11], Philomena Watson [12][13]  
 **Sibling(s):** Harriet Watson [13] **  
 **Title(s):**** Trainee Healer, the Child War Hero

 **Condition(s):**  
Moderate Traumatic Brain Injury.  
Bone Contusion in Left Radius.  
Subperiosteal hematoma in Right Humerus.  
Contusions on the back, arms, and legs.  
Several Abrasions on the back.  
Lacerations on the chest.  
Psychosomatic Limp forming on Right Leg.

 **—oOo—**

Madame Pomfrey tuts and fusses over John—mostly scolding him for not telling her anything about it. She mumbles about how healers are the best in hiding their injuries and diseases. She scolds John and tells him never to be like those kinds of healers—John was arguing with her in his head but outside, he keeps nodding and agreeing.

After being given the appropriate medical necessities, the professors walk towards them once more.

"I think it's best for Mr Holmes to tell us what happened," Dumbledore says.

"Accidental long-distance magic," Sherlock states clearly but quietly.

"That's impossible," Professor Sprout states.

"Long-distance magic itself has been almost extinct. Even I cannot wield such power," Dumbledore says.

" _Almost_ extinct—" Sherlock smirks at the professors smugly—"not _completely_. It worked for me."

"And depleting half of your core in the process," Madame Pomfrey scolds, handing him three pills. "Here, this would help in your magical recovery."

"What are these?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"They're called Magi-Me-More pills," John answers. "They're actually for elderly wizards to regain their power and concentration." He looks at Madame Pomfrey. "Is this being given so the pills would concentrate on the core? Would it manipulate it enough to quicken its recovery?"

Madame Pomfrey smiles at John proudly. "Indeed." John smiles with pride—so does Sherlock but he quickly drops it when he realises what he was doing. "Take this, too, Mr Holmes," she says, giving Sherlock a Calming Draught, "for your hand."

Sherlock looks up at this, and glances at his hand briefly. "M-my hand?" Madame Pomfrey nods and looks at him pointedly. "Oh."

She has been giving him Calming Draught almost every week for the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse from his attackers weeks ago. No one knows except Sherlock, Madame Pomfrey, Mycroft, and the attackers themselves. Madame Pomfrey was sworn to secrecy by Mycroft and Sherlock.

He hates that there is a physical form of his distress and trauma. It will pass, of course, but the betrayal of his limbs irks him too much.

"Thank you," he says, before drinking the draught and the pills.

"I'll be checking on your bones and body for bruises, Mr Holmes. Seems your magic was too violent for your body."

Sherlock smiles before succumbing to a deep sleep. John was brought to the bed beside Sherlock's and was also given a Calming Draught.

With a sigh, Madame Pomfrey looks around the Hospital Wing—not at all happy that for the first time in eight years (more or less) since the war, her Wing is full once more of the injured.

 **—oOo—**

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, he sees Roäc and Thorondor perched on the foot of the bed. By his feet is a note which is written:

 _You used a wand, didn't you, brother  
mine? Aren't you a bit old for accidental  
magic?  
_ _Our wards had fallen. We will have to  
replace every ward in the manor—  
including the Fidelius Charm. I've written  
all you need to know.  
_ _M_

Sherlock sees another paper with Mycroft's penmanship to see:

 _The Holmes Manor  
may be found in the Round Copse,  
Salisbury, Wiltshire._

Sherlock sighs, placing it on the table beside his bed, reminding himself to give it to John next time, before falling asleep once more.

 **—oOo—**

Sherlock sends a message back to Mycroft a few hours later:

 _I used **a wand**. It obviously brought more  
power than I expected.  
Did you know that a memory charm had  
been placed on me?  
SH_

A reply was instantly received.

 _I'll be visiting later._

 **—oOo—**

When morning arrives, as promised, Mycroft arrives in the Hospital Wing and walks towards Sherlock's bed almost immediately.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greets.

"Brother mine," Mycroft greets back. Looking past the bed in front of him, he greets, "John."

"Mycroft," John greets back.

"Muffliato Charm," Sherlock tells Mycroft, who raises a brow at him. Sherlock sighs. "I depleted my core from the stunt I did yesterday." When Mycroft raises a hand, Sherlock tells him, "Include John."

"This is a private matter," Mycroft argues challengingly.

"John stays," Sherlock insists.

Mycroft narrows his eyes at the unusual fire in Sherlock's eyes. He looks up to where John is right now and sees him smirking to himself. Mycroft stands straighter and clears his throat before offhandedly flicks his hand, forming an invisible bubble around them.

"So, do you know?" Sherlock asks immediately.

"I need details, Sherlock. I want to know why you believe someone had placed a memory charm on you," Mycroft says.

"The fact that you felt that this is urgent means that something _had_ happened to me which I don't remember," Sherlock replies.

"No. I know your thought process, brother dear, and since you seem to be completely factual about having a memory charm placed on you—enough to use a very powerful counter-charm with your wand, I would be inclined to know what triggered this response."

"Well, I don't remember! That's the point!"

"It's about Redbeard," John finally says.

Mycroft looks up at John at this. Sherlock shakes his head again as a wave of confusion hits him.

 _What do you know about Redbeard, John?_ Mycroft asks in John's head.

John sighs, looking at Sherlock then back at Mycroft.

 _Nothing. Your neighbour, Lemnir, just mentioned Redbeard to me and something about a dog but he was so incomprehensible at the time, I didn't really hear anything about it._

Mycroft gives a brief nod.

"Merlin, you two are irritating," Sherlock grumbles to both of them. "Despite using telepathy, brother. You have to know that John can be so _loud_ without even talking." They keep silent. "Alright then, lift it off of me, Mycroft."

"Pardon?"

"Lift the charm on me."

"I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I've been trying to detect charms on you since I came upon this area, brother dear, and I had detected no memory charm whatsoever. However, there is some form of magic surrounding you that cannot be lifted by anyone... except _you_."

"What?" John asks. "Mycroft, what do you mean? Sherlock charmed himself?"

"Precisely."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asks in confusion.

"Why, indeed," Mycroft asks, giving a cold smile. "Now that I know what's going on, if you'll excuse me, I'll be leaving."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaims.

"What?"

"What do I do?" Sherlock asks.

John notices, for the first time since he had met the two brothers, the deep fondness from Mycroft and the blind respect from Sherlock. Sibling rivalry with underlying care for each other.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft says, "but this is for your own good."

Mycroft raises his hand and places a powerful and precise False Memory Charm on both John and Sherlock. With a snap of his fingers, both students fall down on their beds in slumber once more.

"You're not ready yet," he whispers before leaving the Hospital Wing.

 **—oOo—**

What happened in the Great Hall only strengthened Sherlock being a pariah. Most people are scared of him or what he is capable of. He has noticed that some Slytherins have been trying to take his attention as well—telling him that they will protect him since they are his kind.

Of course, he took their friendship immediately. Some were intellectually stimulating but not as intellectually stimulating like John—who had noticed that Sherlock is gaining a lot of acquaintances from Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor... but not in his own preferred house of Ravenclaw.

This goes on for months—much to Sherlock's disappointment.

Sherlock remembers John telling him, "You know, you told me once that rumours in the Wizarding World die out after two to four weeks. Yours has been going on for more than half a year already."

"It's because some small incidents are drops of water on a dying fire. It ignites it all back and makes an uproar and _strengthens_ it," he spat.

"Well, you just got to admit that you're the next new Merlin," John teased and Sherlock gave him a glare that _almost_ concerned John on Sherlock's sanity and manic state.

With a sigh, Sherlock removes himself from his thoughts and stands up from his bed in his sole room in the Hufflepuff dormitory. He quickly changes before any of the Hufflepuffs wake up and offer him some more food and help. He does want to have some time for himself.

"Wotcher! It's Sherlock, right?"

Sherlock manages to hide back a flinch at the sound of the armour beside him clanging on the floor. He hates _flinching_ because it is stupid and he _really_ hates it when his body betrays him. He wants to prove to everyone, including himself, that he is, in fact, very much _fine_.

He turns and looks up to see a girl wearing a Hufflepuff scarf—probably sixth year—who gives him a sheepish apology for clumsily hitting the armour in the corridor. Sherlock shakes his head because it was no trouble and he did _NOT_ flinch.

To Sherlock's curiosity, this girl has hair with a different type of red—nothing at all like any of the hue of natural red hair. There also doesn't seem to be traces of hair dye or potion used. How can red like his be natural? Unless it is caused by magic—a charm, perhaps?

Sherlock watches as the sheepish apologetic look on the girl's face disappears but what truly astounds him is that her red hair turns into a bubble gum pink.

"Oh, you play?" the girl asks, pointing at Sherlock's violin, apparently unaware of her hair changing.

"You're a Metamorphmagus," he states, ignoring her comment. [14]

"How did—? Oh, my hair changed, didn't it?" she asks. Sherlock continues to stare at her as she offers a hand. "I'm Nymphadora Tonks but _please_ , call me Tonks... or else."

"Or else what?" Sherlock asks curiously and innocently.

"Well, let's not shorten the patience of a Hufflepuff," she answers with a smile.

"I'm technically a Hufflepuff as well," Sherlock adds, "but I will probably be known as the most impatient and unfriendliest Hufflepuff to ever walk in the corridors of Hogwarts."

Tonks smiles. "We're talking civilly and we only just met. I think you're friendly enough."

Sherlock grimaces. "I don't have _friends_." He doesn't have friends. He has a plethora of people who owe him a favour now—students from all four houses asking for his help for some things that are beyond student abilities but awful enough that asking for people in authority would be a bad idea.

"I don't think that's true."

He tilts his head curiously. "Why's that?"

"John Watson—I see you two together all the time. I know him. Well, not _know_ him, exactly, but I know of his past, and I know enough that he's nice. He's been sticking near you after that... Great Hall fiasco. Sorry..." Sherlock shakes his head again because he is _fine_. Damn it. "He's the child war hero, isn't he? John?" Tonks asks.

Sherlock looks at a distance. "I have no doubt we will be having more of that in the future," he mumbles before leaving without another word.

"Wait up!" Tonks yells behind him.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asks.

"Nothing," Tonks replies, stepping back at the sudden coldness of the child, "I'm just surprised you're wandering around at this time. It's five o'clock in the morning."

" _You're_ wandering around at this time."

"Well, that's because I'm heading to the kitchen to get myself some food."

Sherlock nods. "Obviously."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, the fact that it is a Saturday means that you are not up for anything related to school. You are only clad in your pyjamas which means you are headed somewhere not really far from here—a small adventure then but nothing too extravagant to require too much clothing. Adventure indoors, then. I have heard your stomach growling twice since we had started talking—obviously hungry. I can also see some napkin inside your pockets but you do not have a cold—it is there for the food. Most likely, you are planning on packing some of the food as well. The fact that we are in the corridor heading towards the kitchen confirms the matter."

"Wow," Tonks says. Sherlock raises a brow before shaking his head and walking away again. "Hey, Sherlock, wait!"

" _What_?" Sherlock asks exasperatedly, stopping once more.

"Where'd you learn to do all that?"

"Mere observation, some books, small amounts of research, my brother."

"Your brother taught you?"

"No. He showed-off but I managed to pick some things up." Tonks laughs at that.

"People thought you weren't going to survive in the Hufflepuff Common Rooms. I heard a gamble once," she says.

Sherlock snorts. "People forget I am partially a Hufflepuff—the house of the loyal—and I am very loyal to the idea of being alone and silent. Thankfully, you people respect that."

"Yes, well, there are a lot of misconceptions about my— _our_ house."

"All houses, really, but Hufflepuffs are less likely to be physically violent."

Tonks nods. "I heard about that. Poor kid—whoever he was—" Sherlock scowls at that—"attacked by five students and from different houses—well, three of the houses. Talk about house unity, eh? I'm glad none of them was a Hufflepuff. It gives me pride to my own house, you know?"

"I suppose it would," Sherlock replies with a shrug.

"So, what's your favourite house, then?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Well, you're the new Merlin—the kid with four houses." Sherlock grimaces at the word, _kid_ , and Tonks chuckles when she notices. "You've got to have a favourite house. So, what do you think? Which one is the best?"

"There is truth that I had initial loyalty to Ravenclaw, and probably will be more inclined to use that very house as my own—I have to say that all four houses have their flaws and their strengths."

"Like?"

"Ravenclaws value wisdom but battle overconfidence. Slytherins value ambition but battle selfishness. Gryffindors value bravery but battle spontaneity. Hufflepuffs value loyalty but battle self-deprivation."

"It must be hard to be in all four of them," Tonks adds and Sherlock's eyes snap up to hers in question. "You're smart, determined, courageous, and faithful, but you have to control your cockiness, impulsiveness, and regardlessness of others and yourself."

"...That's... not... _me_..."

"We'll see."

Sherlock blinks a few more times whilst Tonks gives him a small smile, a pat on the head, and leaves to the kitchen.

Sherlock, finally regaining his own head, shakes his head and goes to the Astronomy Tower which he had initially been planning to do.

 **—oOo—**

The rest of the year passes by as normally as Sherlock and John can possibly be. They "accidentally" go to some adventures in the Forbidden Forest. Sherlock is not aware of it but John is writing everything they have been doing in a journal. Perhaps, one day, he can publish it as a book or something.

They have earned a reputation amongst the professors. According to what John had heard, they are known as responsible troublemakers... much to Sherlock's confusion. John explains that professors trust them but know that they are troublemakers as well. They almost always never get punished since they often find loopholes with the school rules—and often justifiable and logical.

John is starting to learn from Sherlock and is getting more and more at ease with the deductions since he can see some for himself—of course, not as extensively as Sherlock, but who else can? Besides Mycroft, of course.

Sherlock still has his own reputation and because of Sherlock being in the spotlight, John has started earning his own spotlight. People swoon over the soon-to-be healer and war hero of the generation. John cannot believe how much people would write in the newspapers for people's entertainment. Sherlock did tell him once to never give the people what they want because it's stupid and stupid is what people want.

"Sherlock?" John starts quietly since they're still in the library.

"Yes?"

"When are you going to stop stealing Filch's oil lamps? I'm getting a bit... sympathetic with him."

"I'll stop if he stops getting in my way," Sherlock replies casually, still struggling to finish his _really BORING_ homework.

"Getting in your way?" John asks in horror, thinking of how... diabolical that phrase usually sounds.

"There were times that I have grown not to care about my... late night adventures and Filch often comes to catch me in the act because of that poltergeist, Peeves."

"He ratted you out?" John asks in surprise. "To _Filch_?!" Everyone knows Peeves loves irritating Filch to no end.

"No, don't be stupid. We were talking about the origins of the castle and how the founders came by this place. We exchanged stories and backgrounds. I may have also... scared him a bit of the extent of my knowledge of some things." Sherlock smirks. John doesn't ask. "What happened is that I was immersed with the information I was being provided that I had not been aware of Mister Filch's cat stalking around the corridors. It always happens like that. Thankfully, I have enough blackmail on Mister Filch. I steal the oil lamp as a reminder that I can do as I please—oftentimes when he is on the verge of ratting me out to the headmaster."

"What else doyou _do_ when I'm passed out asleep?" John asks.

"Oh some... magical experiments... Nothing illegal but nothing... pleasant nor appropriate either."

" _Sherlock_."

"I'm a Ravenclaw. I have curiosities."

"That's not an excuse."

"You say that all the time when we're faced with danger."

"Because I'm a Gryffindor. I have courage," John mocks. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No, _really_ , Sherlock, what do you do?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I roam around the school—going to every hidden passage in the map."

"The Marauder's Map?" John asks.

"What other map could I possibly be talking about?" Sherlock asks, annoyed.

"Oh, perhaps the map _you're_ trying to create?" Sherlock stares at him. "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock."

"Where do you get that idea?"

John rolls his eyes. "So what _do_ you do?" John asks.

"Not much... Roaming around... Jumping common rooms after common rooms... I am rather fond of the Slytherin Common Room since the Merpeople can be seen through the windows. I have been trying to communicate with them but I can't hear them through the window. "

"You know how to speak Mermish?" John asks in surprise.

"No," Sherlock admits—much to John's greater surprise, "but I should start, shouldn't I?" Sherlock asks, raising his head from the essay he had been trying to do for hours.

Sherlock snaps up from his seat but John stops him just in time before he runs to the language section of the library.

"No, Sherlock, you are _not_ going to abandon your History of Magic essay."

Sherlock grumbles. "But it's so _boring_."

"No, Sherlock, it is due tomorrow and you are going to finish it."

"It is something _due tomorrow_ , and so it is something I will _do tomorrow_."

" _Sherlock_ , you will _not_ procrastinate on this essay... and you will certainly _not_ cram this tomorrow."

"You're not my mother, _John_."

"I might as well be!" Some people glare at them angrily from their noise which John returns with an apologetic look. "Sherlock, believe me. You will thank me in the morning. If you finish this now, you will get more sleep than you would have if you don't."

"This wouldn't be the first time I crammed an essay, John," Sherlock argues, rolling his eyes.

"And how many times did you groan and moan about lacking sleep?" John asks. Sherlock keeps quiet. "I thought so."

"But... _Mermish_ , John."

"You can learn it tomorrow."

"But it's much more interesting than the _Goblin Wars_ ," he mumbles, starting on writing.

"Lemnir would disagree with you," John counters.

Sherlock looks at John. "When did you and he become... _buddies_?"

"You're not the only one wandering around at night, Sherlock." John smirks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he adds another five sentences on his essay which he is not really making an effort to. "But _when_ did you? Why have we not crossed paths?" he asks.

"Because I wander with a _destination_ ," John replies.

"Like broom cupboards?" Sherlock asks with a raised brow and John narrows his eyes at him just as Sherlock returns to his writing.

"You saw me go in there once, didn't you?" John asks.

Sherlock smirks, not looking at John. "Not just once."

"Sherlock, whatever you think we're doing—"

"Are you _really_ going to try to explain that you're not having any... physical _intimacies_ in that broom cupboard?" Sherlock turns to John. "I may be twelve, but I am not an idiot. I'm surprised with you—at _fourteen_ years old?" Sherlock raises a brow.

John rolls his eyes. "I'm not even going to explain to you how the human mind works—"

"You mean human body—puberty, hormones, _developments_ ," he mocks, writing once more to emphasise his mocking indifference.

"Jesus, Sherlock, that's not—"

"You're a _lonely_ teenager before that other healer-in-training you dated, Sally—"

"It's _Sarah_!"

"—and you are in an establishment filled with students, particularly students of your age with the same _developing_ stages as you do. The lack of good secured guard from the source of authority seems to help this sort of... _rebelliousness_ ," Sherlock says the last word with a laugh.

John stares at Sherlock for a few moments before smiling and laughing humourlessly. Pointing at him, he tells the younger student, "Just you wait when _you're_ on the receiving end of the _developing stages_ , Sherlock. I won't stop when you get a girlfriend."

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area," Sherlock replies.

John hums, amused, before replaying Sherlock's words. "Oh, right, a boyfriend, then?" Sherlock glares at him sharply. "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So, a boyfriend, then?"

"No."

"Right. Okay... You know, you will have one—eventually."

Sherlock snorts. Oh, he will have one... and he will probably do it for either Science or for longer use of manipulation. He'll do anything for knowledge. [15]

"I'm done," Sherlock announces, bouncing up from his seat to go run to a book about Merpeople.

Again, John stops him by pulling him back on his seat.

"What do you mean you're done? You just started."

"Oh, John, you should have known by now that I am already an expert on... on... circling my words to one's favour and extracting the idea of my knowledge through simple sentences with complex words."

"You mean you're an expert on bullshitting your essays?" John asks, looking down at the three-foot essay. [16]

Sherlock smirks. "More or less."

 **—oOo—**

The last day of the school year 1988-1989 has finally come. While they are in the last compartment of the train, John, who had forced Sherlock to do the same, had said goodbye to Bill Weasley, who had come to say goodbye to Sherlock, since this is his last school year. Bill had also thanked Sherlock, who nods in return, as he leaves, making John look at Sherlock in question.

"I let him borrow more... _unknown_ books in Ancient Runes."

" _Sherlock_."

"They're not illegal... but they are... frowned upon."

" _Sherlock._ "

"He won't be the first to owe me a favour."

" _Sherlock_."

"Have you ever noticed that ninety percent of the time we spent together is you screaming my name?" Sherlock asks.

" _Sher_ —" John stops. "That sounds... Did you do that on purpose?"

Sherlock laughs. "Perhaps."

"Oh God, Sherlock making sex jokes, I did not see this coming," John mumbles to himself, "and you're too young to make sex jokes!"

" _Please_ ," Sherlock replies with a sneer, "the average age of children learning masturbation is six, and the search of pornography at age eleven. I think I'm old enough to make jokes about it."

"Why on _Earth_ do you know the statistics of that?" John asks.

"I came across it at one of my mother's books."

"Books about what?"

"Human Psychology."

"Did you even _have_ a childhood?" John asks in disbelief.

"Everyone has a childhood."

John laughs humourlessly. "Not everyone."

Sherlock glances at him significantly before looking away. "Of course, everyone has... but some have good ones, and some... do not."

John sucks in a breath—remembering his own fucked up childhood. He clears his throat. "Er, yeah... So, two months, eh?"

"My parents insist that I tell you that you are welcome to the manor at all times."

"Tell them, thank you."

 **—oOo—**

For once, Sherlock stands still and quiet amongst his family, and doesn't dare comment anything as he watches John at a distance, the latter hailing a cab to go back to his house—alone. Hopefully, John is not prideful enough not to visit the Holmes Manor.

 **—oOo—**

[1] Arana is derived from words meaning spider and valley.

[2] Salmissra, from the book "Queen of Sorcery" in the Belgariad (five-book fantasy epic) by David Eddings. Queen Salmissra was transformed into an immortal snake.

[3] Sherlock's trouble with wands: explained in Chapter 4.

[4] Based on William Baring-Gould's and Philip José Farmer's works. Sherlock once used the alias "Sigerson" so they thought that he probably is the son of Sigerson. Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch.

[5] The Duke of Cumberland was suspended during World War I under the 1917 Titles Deprivation Act. I think, the King (George V) secretly gave it to his magical descendants: the Holmeses lol

From the fourth season of Sherlock, it was revealed that the Holmes family first lived their lives in Musgrave—which is in the county of Cumbria. Cumberland is now a part of Cumbria. Cumberland was actually abolished in 1974.

[6] Violet is based on William Baring-Gould's and Michael Harrison's works. Violete Vernet was the daughter of Carle Vernet. Violete married Sir Edward Sherrinford and had a child with him named Violet—the mother of Sherlock and Mycroft.

I wanted her name to be Margaret Lydia Holmes from the metas and theories I've read and with the fact that in His Last Vow, in the "The Dynamics of Combustion" book. It was written that the author is M.L. Holmes.

Margaret because in "The Hounds of Baskerville," Sherlock sees six Thatcher books and uses it as a key to HOUND (Redbeard). Who is the lock? Sherlock, duh.

Lydia because in Robert D'Artagnan's work, "Sherlock Holmes's Last Case," her name is Lydia Mycroft Holmes.

[7] The title of the Marquess of Wigtown had been extinct since 1602. Wigtown is a town in Scotland which is also the hometown of the Wigtown Wanderers—a Quidditch Team... so it's a wizard village.

[8] MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SHERLOCK SERIES FOUR. For those who do not want to be spoiled, the answer is in a cipher. I used a grid cipher with 5 x 3.

LYRHMAEUOEDUSLS

[9] The title of the Earl of Anglesey had been extinct since 1761. Anglesey is an island in Wales which is where Holyhead—a wizard village and hometown of the Holyhead Harpies (Quidditch Team)—is.

[10] Why this date? Answer here:  
therapsheet . blogspot . ca / 2009 / 03 / happy-birthday-doctor-watson . html

[11] John Watson's father had the initials H.W. Someone proposed John's middle name was "Hubert." I already mentioned "Geoffrey Watson" so...

[12] Philomena R. Norris = Martin Freeman's mother.

[13] It doesn't fully detect muggle heritage.

[14] "A Metamorphmagus is a witch or wizard with the ability to change his or her physical appearance at will, rather than requiring Polyjuice Potion or a spell like the rest of the wizarding population."

[15] Reminding everyone of Janine. Sherlock is not a saint, and has qualities of a Slytherin and Ravenclaw—both will do anything for something, no matter the cost.

Do not forget that Sherlock is a light (puppy-loving, wedding-planning, smiling, kid-preferring [Archie and Baby Watson], giggling) character and a dark (manipulating [Molly, Janine], killing, emotion-extorting [tricking John into telling him he'd been forgiven], pain-inflicting [stepped on the cabbie's gun-wounded shoulder to extract info about Moriarty!], drug-taking, violent-reacting [attacked Mycroft, threw man out of window]) character.

[16] My two friends and I are experts on this. We can finish two-page essays in 15-30 minutes, complete with sources, paraphrases, and long analysis... and we bullshit them. I explain what I deduced from the professor. We analyse the professor and we write what s/he would mostly search for in an essay.

The amount of times we get perfect scores is awesome. Yes, we are procrastinating and cramming Ravenclaws who hate working and studying.

I remember going to my Marketing class (which I'm not interested in AT ALL) and I didn't study for our Midterms. I got 98 out of 100. BWAHAHAHAHA!

Then there was Chemistry Class. I didn't know it was our FINAL exam, and I only studied 10 minutes before the class because I asked my friends why everyone was sitting a seat apart. I got a fair score... more than 83, but still... proud of it since I literally studied for 10 minutes. LOL.

I had a business case (which requires 5 people but no one took me in their group—and my two friends weren't my classmates) which was due on the same day I found out about it... I finished 10 pages of analysis on Accountancy (my course) in an hour.

It took more effort because it's Accounting and if I get a lower grade than 83, I'll get kicked out of the course and lose my scholarship... but still bullshitting my way around college. I just realised how lazy and useless of a student I am HAHAHAHHA


	10. (1989) The Beginning of Two

****.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _The two friends reconcile once more at the beginning of yet another school year at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._**

 _NOTES:_  
 _I'm sorry this one took a long time. I've been spending a lot of time in my uni's theatre guild. I got one of the lead roles which is nice._

 **—oOo—**

John doesn't hesitate this time unlike last year. He drags his mother's old suitcase—the very same one Sherlock had deduced exactly a year ago. Assuming Sherlock is already in King's Cross, and if not, John will most likely wait for him, John makes his way through the train with so few people and unhesitatingly goes to the last compartment.

Not much to his surprise, Sherlock is already there, sitting with his back on the wall beside the window. His legs are stretched in front of them and crossed on the ankle. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock is reading once more.

"Sherlock, I can't keep this," he immediately tells the younger one.

"Hello to you, too, John," Sherlock mumbles, not looking away from another book—to John's surprise, it's a book about magic instead of the usual Science ones. The second year doesn't move from his position.

"Sherlock," John scolds.

Sighing, Sherlock slowly puts the book down, still opened and merely facing down on his stomach as he looks at John who is still standing on the doorway with his suitcase still behind him. "What?" Sherlock snaps.

John sighs. "It's too much."

"I am rather flattered that you would believe I know everything, John, but I think I need more information than what you're giving me so I would know what in the world you are talking about," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Without another word, John walks in and places his suitcase in the middle of the compartment before opening it. To Sherlock's amusement, John looks inside the suitcase and his body is halfway in as he reaches for something below the suitcase. When John comes back up, he holds something wrapped with a large brown parchment.

"Why did you wrap it again?" Sherlock asks curiously.

"Because _I can't_ _keep this_ , Sherlock," John says exasperatedly, handing it over to Sherlock.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, confused.

"W— _why_ _not_?" John asks, just as confused, but more exasperated than not. "Sherlock, this is the _Nimbus_ _1700_ [1]!"

"Yes."

"It's currently the fastest broomstick _in the century_!"

"Yes."

"This would have cost _a lot_!"

"So?"

"Sherlock, it's too much!"

"Well, you never informed me of your birthday," Sherlock says grumpily, glaring at the book in his hands.

"What's _that_ got to do with this?" John asks.

"Well, I find it unfair that you asked _Mycroft_ to know my birthday, and so I did the same."

"How _the hell_ would Mycroft know when my birthday is? And how the hell is it unfair?"

"Technically, Mycroft could have searched for it easily. He knows everything about everyone with a snap of his fingers—at least, that's how he claims he grabs information he needs... but he managed to inform it of me when he asked me in the summer what I got you in the 31st of March."

"Why would he ask that?"

"Obviously, he is aware that I have no idea when your date of birth is. I suppose it is a way to be smug about how he knows a simple fact about you and that I do not," Sherlock says. "With the busy year we have had, I suppose it should not have been a surprise that both of us had forgotten to inform the other about trivial things."

John laughs. "No kidding. I even forgot to buy you a present. What, with you blowing up the Great Hall and all..."

"I didn't blow up the Great Hall. I just accidentally—"

"—accidentally took down most wards and magic placed on the castle. That's basically blowing up Hogwarts, you know."

"I said I was sorry," Sherlock replies with a foul huff.

"So how is it unfair that I know your birthday but you don't know mine?" John asks.

"Because you know it and I don't," Sherlock replies in a snappy tone which makes John chuckle amusedly.

Being friends with Sherlock for a year helps you understand the child a bit better—a hidden huge and brave fragile heart behind the formulated cold machine-like brain. No wonder the hat brought him into all four houses... and why Sherlock would not hesitate into giving him an _expensive_ gift.

"Sherlock, can you just— _take it_ ," John says, shoving the broom towards Sherlock's direction once more, still a bit uncomfortable at how expensive Sherlock's gift is.

"No."

" _Sherlock_."

"It is a gift. If you were to reject it, it would be incredibly rude of you and I would be immensely hurt at the gesture."

"I didn't even get you a gift on _your_ birthday," John says miserably. Sherlock looks at the older student to see him still kneeling on the floor in front of his suitcase, the broom still in his hands and him looking at it with discomfort, agony, and longing.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock quietly replies, "You remembered my birthday."

John looks up at that, seeing Sherlock hide his own face with the book he is reading.

 _Oh_ , John thinks.

Immediately, he starts to feel offended in behalf of Sherlock. To think that merely remembering or acknowledging his birthday is enough of a gift for Sherlock is... upsetting. John's cheeks start to redden with shame and anger. Sherlock doesn't deserve that kind of treatment and as his friend, he should have done more for Sherlock's birthday. From what he had learned from Lemnir and Mycroft, Sherlock didn't have much friends as a child—or, at least, he was a lonely child...

 _And he still is_ , he thinks, remembering how people would whisper and scoot away from Sherlock when he is around—Gryffindors, Slytherins, Ravenclaws, and even Hufflepuffs think alike when it comes to Sherlock: he is _dangerous_.

"Stop it," Sherlock suddenly says.

John snaps his head up to see Sherlock still reading from his book before bowing his head to look down at the broom in his hands. Sighing and knowing Sherlock won't back down without a fight, John sighs and places the broom back in the suitcase. He closes the suitcase and places it on the luggage rack above the seat opposite Sherlock in one smooth move.

Sheepishly, John whispers, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Though giving you a gift on your birthday we both had not realised we had passed is a kind gesture, it is more of a punishment."

"What? Why? How?" John asks, sitting down on the seat in front of Sherlock.

"Knowing your moral code, John, it was not unexpected of you to feel obligated to give the broom back to me."

"But why did you do it?" John asks, annoyed.

"Because you didn't and had no intention to visit me in the summer when I had invited you to," Sherlock replies, reading once more.

"That's it?"

"Yes... ... ... _w_ _hat_?"

"You gave me a bloody Nimbus 1700 as a bloody birthday gift because I didn't go to your house?" John asks.

Sherlock purses his lips before snappily saying, "Yes."

"Why go through all these lengths for my internal conflict?" John asks in confusion, still surprised at any actions made by the younger student.

"Because I can see that your mother still does not acknowledge your presence," Sherlock says.

John sits up as if he had been slapped. "Oh," he whispers quietly.

"Yes, that's why I gave you that broom because it will cause you some, as you said, internal conflict over the summer," Sherlock says, still looking at the book in his hands but John doubts that Sherlock is actually reading something as Sherlock continues to rant more about how internal conflict in a prolonged state would benefit Sherlock in the unforeseeable future.

 _No_ , John thinks to himself, _it's because you know it would cheer me up._ "Thank you," John says.

Sherlock stops ranting before blinking and asking, "You'd thank me for causing you internal conflict?"

John rolls his eyes. It was obvious that Sherlock was surprised that John would not have accepted the gift—especially since Sherlock had questioned him earlier on why it was being given back to him.

"Whatever you say, Sherlock... Thank you," he repeats even more sincerely.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him in curiosity before shaking his head and reading once more. The two stay in complete silence even when the train started going.

"You're not a prefect, are you?" Sherlock suddenly says just as John was starting to drift off to sleep.

"Huh, what?" he asks in confusion.

"I said 'you're not a prefect, are you?'," Sherlock repeats.

John blinks a few times as he opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking out of the window with a satisfied look on his face—something to add in his mind: Sherlock likes seeing the peaceful outdoors.

"Actually, yes," John says with a sigh.

"Boring," Sherlock says with something like... disappointment?

"I'm actually going to Professor McGonagall the moment we go to Hogwarts so I can relieve myself from the responsibility," John says.

"Oh?" Sherlock asks in surprise.

"Yes, well, it's an honour but... I don't think I'm up for it."

"Why not?"

"Well, I have to handle you for the rest of the year, haven't I? Don't have time to handle the rest of the student body. Besides, roaming around the school to tell someone off seems like a boring way to spend the year, don't you think? There would be less visits to the Forbidden Forest if that's the case," John explains and he sees the corner of Sherlock's lips turn up slightly.

"Couldn't you have asked Professor McGonagall earlier?" Sherlock asks.

"I can't—I mean—I don't know how to contact her," John replies, shrugging.

"Owl?" Sherlock says it with the most confused tone John had ever heard from the younger student's mouth.

"Well, it's not like I have one of those, do I?"

Sherlock hums at that before silence spreads in the compartment once more.

"Wasted opportunity, wouldn't it?" Sherlock says after a few minutes of silence.

"Which is?"

"Relieving yourself from the responsibility of a prefect."

"You think so?"

"No, everyone else thinks so."

"Well, I don't."

"Don't you?"

"I'm already a healer-in-training, and I'll probably join the Aurors when I graduate. If I am to be properly trained and be the best, wandering around at night won't help me learn, would it?"

"Technically, we _do_ only wander around at night."

"No, _you_ do. I have Auror training."

Sherlock raises a brow. "Since when did you have Auror training?"

"Don't we use defensive spells when encountering dangerous beasts in the Forbidden Forest?" John asks. "I think saving your backside plenty of times can be counted as Auror Training. Not to mention, you've been asking me to be taught wandless magic by you."

"Because it's much more efficient than using a wand."

"I think I like using an instrument to channel my magic, thanks."

"Then what would you do if your wand was taken from you from either a Disarming Charm or from physical force?" he asks with a raised brow.

"Then I'd take my wand back with force."

"We both know that's not always going to work."

"Well fortunately for both of us, the one and only wandless charm I've mastered is the Summoning Charm. _Yes_ , Sherlock, I _can_ do wandless magic, you know..." John says.

"I'm _very_ aware of how much you are capable of using wandless magic, John. You healed people with it, didn't you?" Sherlock asks. John blinks before nodding, remembering his past before shaking his head to get rid of it. Sherlock blinks apologetically and shifts on his seat. "So, how did you master it?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because intentional wandless magic is different from being an innocent child—who is keenly determined—to being a teenager—who had already learned the laws of magic from an institution where professors had conditioned them to think limitedly," Sherlock explains. [2]

"'Conditioned'?" John asks.

"They're not really asking us to improvise, are they?" Sherlock points out.

"No, they're not."

"That's a flaw in the system, right there. Magic is different between every sorcerer."

"Like a fingerprint, you said," John adds.

"Exactly... Now, you see why teaching us basic spells is limiting?"

"I never said I disagreed with you, Sherlock. I've always known we're being limited. I had a muggle upbringing, remember? Muggles' imagination about the wizarding world is actually much vaster than wizards themselves," John says. "Wizards underestimate muggles. To be honest, I think muggles are actually much more powerful than wizards and that they won the war that the Ministry is trying to hide from public eye. We wouldn't be living in secret if wizards were the victors."

Sherlock gives a small smile but continues to look at the book in his hands. John feels like he had made the younger student proud with his assessment.

"So how much did you try before you managed it?" Sherlock asks after a long silence.

"Managed what?"

Sherlock sighs and gives John a look. "Intentional wandless magic."

"On my first try," John says proudly.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock laughs. "You were trying to reach for the remote control for the television, weren't you?"

"How did you know?" John asks in surprise and a slight amount of discomfort from the accuracy of Sherlock's statement. Was Sherlock spying on him again?

"I didn't, so thank you for confirming my hypothesis," Sherlock replies, looking down on his book with a small satisfied smirk on his face.

John groans at falling into Sherlock's trap. "Okay, fine, I forced myself to learn to summon wandlessly because I was too lazy to stand up and walk five feet to grab the bloody remote. Happy now?"

Sherlock hums, grabbing two things from his pockets. "You learned wandless magic on your first try because you managed to will your magic to obey your command. I believe it is a rather successful first try, John."

"What are you—?" John questions, looking at what Sherlock is doing—"Are you writing _notes_ about me?!" John asks.

"No," Sherlock replies, "I am merely pinpointing marks on your progress with wandless magic mastery."

"By taking down _notes_?!" John questions.

"Just reminders," Sherlock argues, still looking down on his bloody notebook.

"Those are notes, Sherlock."

"I have to write your progress, John. It's easy to track down how quick your mastery would be."

"It's not that big of a deal."

"Summoning charms are taught in Year Four and revised in Year Five," Sherlock starts. "The fact that _that_ charm is taught in a higher year rather than in Years One, Two, and Three means that it is a difficult spell to the average wizard. Naturally, the wandless equivalent of a moderately difficult charm would be about a level higher than a NEWT to an average wizard... and yet, on your first try, you managed to master the wandless equivalent of the Summoning Charm."

"Because I was being a lazy git!"

"Because you were motivated to grab the remote without the need to stand up to retrieve it," Sherlock argues. "Forgive me, but you are doing yourself a disservice."

"You make it sound better than it really was," John says with an exasperated sigh.

At that moment, John manages to stop Sherlock's book from hitting and smashing the window by taking out his hand in instinct and summoning the book before it hits the window, and instead, it hits his hand instead.

"I think that rather proves it," Sherlock says, looking at the book in John's hand with a satisfied scientific look.

" _Sherlock_ , you could get us both in trouble with that stunt!" John scolds the other, handing the book back to Sherlock.

"You used instinctive wandless magic, though," Sherlock replies, looking down at the book and reading as if he and John are having a normal conversation and not a debate, "and how long since you first knowingly used wandless magic did it start to become instinctive?"

"...A few minutes..."

"I rest my case."

"What case?"

"That you're a natural wandless user. You've already proven that when you were half your age but after limiting conditions given by the institution of Hogwarts, this only proves that your abilities never died down. I've observed many wizards and witches who had lost their abilities from lack of use. You should use it more often so it won't depend too much on the wand you wield," Sherlock states, writing things down on his bloody notebook.

"You're a right git, you know that?" John replies with an exasperated fondness which Sherlock had managed to detect.

Sherlock smirks and nods to himself. "Of course," he eventually says. "Shame though."

"Shame?"

"That you're not a prefect."

"I thought you don't want me to be a prefect?"

"Who said I don't want you to be a prefect?"

"So you'd rather I'd be a prefect?"

"No."

"Well, there you go, then... Why is it a shame if you don't even want me to be a prefect in the first place?"

"With you as a prefect, I could easily get away with murder," Sherlock replies.

" _Sherlock_!"

"Not literally," Sherlock says with a small smile. "Do you really think I'm capable of murder?" Sherlock asks bemusedly.

"If there's a cause," John says, shrugging, "even _I_ was capable of murder." John blinks a few times when he realised what he had said out loud before looking away and towards the view outside the window.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on his seat, remembering once more that John _had_ fought off death eaters at the age of _seven_ through intentional accidental magic [2]. It's one thing to think of John using magic to save himself and others through instinctive wandless magic... but it's another to think of John using magic to fight off dangerous men as a child.

"It's not murder if you're defending yourself," Sherlock mumbles.

"It doesn't change what happened. I still killed people," John replies quietly.

Sherlock, not knowing how to answer, just hums and continues to look outside. John leans his head on the wall and starts to drift off to sleep once more.

 **—oOo—**

"Come on, then," John tells Sherlock when they reached the station at Hogsmeade.

"Look at them," Sherlock replies, pointedly looking at the children following the half-giant.

"What about them?"

"They're so _many_ of them," Sherlock complains.

"Yeah, nearly a hundred. Why?" John asks.

"We will be forced to sit through the entire sorting process... with nearly a hundred students this year?" Sherlock asks as if John is completely stupid.

"That's basically almost as much students who were sorted last year, you know," John points out, "which made the sorting process even longer since _you_ were seated there for almost an hour, remember?"

"Don't even remind me."

"Must be nice to be sorted in GryffinClawPuffErin," John teases.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"No."

"You're never going to let me live this down, aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Ugh."

"Even though it was probably the longest sorting process ever written in Hogwarts history, it was still entertaining... Definitely the most talked about event at Hogwarts."

"Shut up."

"Four houses, eh, Sherlock?"

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Shut up."

John laughs. "Well, let's go on, then... We have to go to Hogwarts and we might miss the last carriage to the castle."

"Fine."

With that, both John and Sherlock go towards the carriages. John sighs as he sees the thestrals pulling the carriages. He hates this part of going back to Hogwarts. He looks around as plenty of other students just move past them—invisible to them. How lucky they are for they have not been touched by Death. Whilst he had caused some of them, in the war... He sees some kids in Sherlock's year stare in shock at the thestrals and keep quiet about them when no one answers their question on why these winged beasts are pulling their carriages.

"John?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah?" John asks, looking to see Sherlock standing in the middle of the road with one of his hands raised.

"Nothing," Sherlock says, shaking his head before going to one of the carriages.

"What's up, Sherlock?" John asks as he enters but Sherlock remains quiet.

To both their satisfaction, no one enters the carriage they are in but they both spend the time in silence, looking out of the window.

"Can you see them?" John asks Sherlock when they are halfway to the castle.

"See what? The thestrals?" Sherlock asks.

"You know about them?" John asks in surprise.

"Mycroft told me about them."

"Which death had he seen, then?" John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. "Dunno—no surprise there, though... _You_ can see them obviously," he adds the last part.

"Yeah," John says sadly, looking out to shake the awkwardness out of the carriage.

"Can one not remember why they can see thestrals?" Sherlock asks.

"Mind repeating that for me?"

"Is it possible that one can forget why they are able to see thestrals?"

John hums. "Why do you ask?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Just curious."

"Well, they did say that they can only be seen by people who have seen death."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"What does that mean, exactly? _Seen death_?"

"Perhaps when someone had witnessed someone die and fully understood of what had happened..."

"Pretend that someone did witness someone die, fully understood what had occurred... and then a third party decided to cast a charm on them to forget parts of their memories... or even a simple Confundus Charm, do you think they'd be able to see thestrals?" Sherlock asks.

"Why are you asking me this?"

Sherlock breathes in as if he is just as surprised. "I don't know. I'll remember soon enough."

"Maybe it could happen," John says with a shrug, "because death was witnessed and comprehended—those are the only things needed to see a thestral. It doesn't necessary mean it has to be remembered."

"But it has to be _understood_. If it is forgotten, wouldn't it not be understood?" Sherlock asks.

"But it _was_ understood already—just forgotten... I'm not sure anyway. Maybe you should ask a Magizoologist... like Newt Scamander."

"That name is familiar to me."

"Well, he did write the book _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ ," John points out.

"Ahhh," Sherlock says, nodding, "yes, I remember being told of his story. I do admire his taming of a Nundu."

"A—a Nundu?" John asks.

"Deadliest beast in the Wizarding World... A dragon is an ant compared to this one... but I heard Mr Newt Scamander had a Nundu tamed once... It's incredibly difficult to gain the trust of a Nundu... more so, tame them... I hope we'd meet one in the Forbidden Forest."

"The _deadliest beast_ in the Wizarding World and you want to meet one?"

"Very unlikely though... They're native to East Africa."

"Just where did you hear all this? About Newt Scamander, I mean."

"Heard my parents talk about him once... and I believe he and Lemnir are good friends. They may have met at one point when I was younger but I'm not sure if that was actually Newt Scamander in Lemnir's cottage."

"You always eavesdrop on anyone and everyone, don't you?"

"Who said I was eavesdropping? It's not my fault people have loud voices whilst I reside in the room next to theirs," Sherlock says with a shrug. "It's not cheating. I use my _senses_ , John."

John laughs. "Whatever you say."

 **—oOo—**

"Where have you been?" Sherlock hisses when he meets John outside the Great Hall.

"Gave my Prefect Badge to Professor McGonagall."

"Oh... Interesting."

"What is?"

"You're still in one piece," Sherlock jokes.

John laughs. "She was disappointed, of course, but I don't think it's worth killing me for."

"No one knows with her. She's incredibly intelligent and feisty—those are the dangerous ones whom you should not provoke," Sherlock says, opening the doors.

"Hmm, yeah," John agrees, looking at Sherlock pointedly but the latter doesn't notice. "She's a Hatstall, too, isn't she?"

"Is she?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, she is—Ravenclaw and Gryffindor."

"A formidable combination," Sherlock replies, smirking. John gives a small smile in return before going towards the Gryffindor table.

Sherlock had decided to sit with his own house this time. Unfortunately for him, no one still trusts the new Merlin—or the new Dark Lord—or whatever title they are giving him these days—so he sits at the end of the table... exactly beside where the additional members of their house would sit in. Goodness, he will have to endure the first years.

Sherlock, then, places his head on the table—a very defeated posture.

"I think making him sit here was a mistake," one of the obviously Third Year Ravenclaws quietly whispers but with Sherlock's now heightened senses, he can hear them perfectly and with a growing migraine.

"Well, we can't do anything about it now, can we?" another replies. "We all know it would take some weird shit to make Holmes stand up and leave."

"But isn't Holmes the one making all that weird shit anyway?" the first asks.

"Yeah, but weird shit gets attracted to him, too," the second argues.

"Do you think it's wise you people are referring to him this way?" a new younger voice asks. Sherlock rests his eyes to see one of the boys who was sorted in the same year as he was.

"Marcus Turner, right?" the first asks and the boy nods. "Why do you think so?"

"Because he's capable of immense power," the boy in the same year as Sherlock, Marcus Turner apparently, replies with a shrug. "We all know what happened last school year... Well actually, it happened just last January, but anyway, I heard the wards went down, too."

"I'm surprised he didn't die," the voice Sherlock recognises as Anderson's says, "with all that power—and the wand was under his chin, too."

Sherlock looks up to look at Anderson and he groans in dismay at the Prefect Badge on the fifth year's robe.

"Perhaps his magic probably saved him," another Ravenclaw says.

"Who are you?" Anderson asks.

"Robert Hilliard."

"Tell us, Robert, how could his magic save him with magic that strong?" another asks.

"Er... well... maybe because his magic is strong and wild enough to defend itself _from itself_?"

"Hmm, a sound theory..." another voice says.

"Maybe that's why it was as strong as it was—power from saving itself and from forcing all the magic out like a burst of flames? I mean, I still have the cuts I gained from the flying forks from last year," Robert Hilliard further questions.

"This only further proves that he has a lot of power," Marcus Turner adds once more.

"Yeah, I agree. I don't think it's wise for us to talk about him negatively—especially in the presence of either Holmes or that Gryffindor, Watson." Sherlock looks up to see that the one talking is the Third Year girl he remembered he had talked to in his first day at Hogwarts [3].

Sherlock groans and crosses his arms, placing it on the table, and burying his head on it—just listening since there's too much sensory data in the room.

"Why do you think so, Penelope?"

"If he _does_ become the next dark lord, we could be the first targets. I, for one, do not want to be at the other end of his magic wand," she replies. Sherlock hears some of the immature Ravenclaws chuckle at Penelope's words, and the sound of a hand hitting the back of some people's heads.

"Do you really think Holmes is going to be the next dark lord? I thought he is the next Merlin?" Marcus Turner asks.

"I never said he _is_ going to be the next dark lord. I'm saying he _could be_ ," Penelope Clearwater points out.

"What about that Watson guy? Why do you think he's a threat?" Anderson asks.

"Well, he's one of the Gryffindor Chasers, isn't he? The best one, I heard—that means he's got perfect _aim_ ," Clearwater points out.

"Not to mention he's the Child War Hero," an older Ravenclaw adds.

"Wait, he's _that_ John Watson?!" Clearwater asks in surprise.

"Overheard the Gryffindor Quidditch Team talking about it months back," she says. "He is also training under Madame Pomfrey. He was good—didn't even need Madame Pomfrey to assist him with healing some of my injuries from the Great Hall incident."

Sherlock's growing pride for John quickly dissipates at the mention of the Great Hall incident.

"See? We're screwed. Even if Holmes _doesn't_ become the next dark lord, with Watson by his side, I still wouldn't want to be on his bad side if he could wield such power. I'd probably blow up into pieces," she adds.

"That's an exaggeration," Anderson quips.

"I could show you the scars I mentioned earlier," Robert Hilliard tells him.

Anderson clears his throat. "No need... I was one of the Ravenclaws sitting closest to Holmes when the incident happened... Let's just say that even spoons can be deadly."

"That must have taken a strong amount of force for something as blunt as a spoon to give you such an injury," another Ravenclaw says.

"The strong force you're talking about is the magical force emitted by Holmes. The whole school shook with his power, didn't it?"

"Plenty of students were thrown out of their seats. Actually, all of the students were thrown out of their seats—even professors. The worst that took it were the Ravenclaws seated in front of Holmes and the Hufflepuffs seated behind him."

"Nah, Watson took the worst of it all," another adds. "I mean, he was standing directly behind him. He was the person nearest to Holmes and I heard even _he_ was forced to stay in the Hospital Wing for days."

The other Ravenclaws hum and start to discuss the possibility of what could happen if Sherlock had become dark and how much the world will perish. They discuss further on Sherlock's abilities, capabilities, and possibilities as if they are discussing one of their lessons—strong analysis, good hypothesis, sound arguments.

Sherlock finally sighs and sits up to glare at them. "As much as I like having analytical discussions with fellow Ravenclaws, I do believe it is my life and my business you are talking about, and I would appreciate it if you all would just _shut up_."

To Sherlock's amusement, the Ravenclaws _do_ keep quiet. They probably did take the suggestion of getting out of his way unless they want to provoke him seriously. He'll probably try to experiment on them later and see how much they are willing to avoid opposing him and how strong their limit is.

At last, Professor McGonagall enters the Great Hall with the First Years following behind her. He looks at the bewildered and excited First Years with a slight amount of sadness. They will stop being curious about the magic of the citadel in a few months. They will lose interest in what really matters because all they'd think about would be grades and other trivial matters. Why are people so... _boring_ in their funny little heads?

The sorting starts.

After a while, Sherlock looks at the stage where the first years are and sees that one of the students is staring at him with a strange look in her eye. He tilts his head in confusion and sees the girl blush and look away, completely turning around to look in front. Sherlock shakes his head from the deduction. The only conclusion he could obtain is that someone... finds him _attractive_.

"Davies, Roger." "RAVENCLAW!"

He sighs when a boy is sorted into Ravenclaw and sits beside him.

"Hi, I'm Roger Davies," he tells Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replies off-handedly and quickly showing his disinterest. It doesn't bother the boy, though, since he was welcomed by the other members.

"Diggory, Cedric." "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Sherlock's having a migraine from all the applause.

"Donovan, Sally." "GRYFFINDOR!" [4]

More and more Ravenclaws now sit beside him. All of them had introduced themselves to Sherlock but Sherlock paid them no mind. Some of the close Ravenclaws quietly explain to them who Sherlock is and so the First Years whisper among themselves that _this_ is _the_ Sherlock Holmes.

Dear Merlin, he's gaining fans. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

After a while, it gets boring before the girl who was staring at him was called, yelping in surprise awkwardly when she was called.

"Hooper, Molly." "HUFFLEPUFF!" [5]

He watches as the girl looks at his table in confusion before looking at the Hufflepuff table which had students screaming. With a small disappointed sigh, she joins them but found it satisfying to sit in a way that she would have a full view of Sherlock the whole time.

"Johnson, Angelina." "GRYFFINDOR!"

Can't the Gryffindor cheer quieter? He huffs in annoyance at the noisy table beyond the Hufflepuff table in front of him.

"Jordan, Lee." "GRYFFINDOR!"

Kill him now. He looks across the table to see John clapping and laughing with the rest of the Gryffindors before catching his eyes. John gives him a sympathetic look and asks him if he's alright with by raising his brows in question.

Sherlock replies with a roll of his eyes, making John smirk amusedly. It takes almost half an hour before he starts questioning his life and why he had even manage to stay here. It's all John's fault, really. He managed to make Sherlock stay in the Great Hall to endure this sorting.

"Montague, Graham." "SLYTHERIN!"

Thank goodness for the Slytherins and their prideful traditional and dignified clapping. They want to maintain regal and so the way they accept and cheer for their fellow Slytherins is appropriate and not annoying at all. It's still loud but less... wild than the others.

Unfortunately, the next students after that were Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

"Pucey, Adrian." "SLYTHERIN!"

"Riley, Kitty." "SLYTHERIN!" [6]

"Spinnet, Alicia." "GRYFFINDOR!"

Sherlock is now crying inside because the Gryffindors won't stop _cheering_. Dear God, won't they just _shut up_.

"Stimpson, Patricia." "RAVENCLAW!"

 _See, Gryffindors? This is how you cheer_ , Sherlock thinks as the Ravenclaw cheer loudly but in a more appropriate volume, despite being on the table himself.

"Towler, Kenneth." "GRYFFINDOR!"

 _SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP_ , Sherlock thinks as the Gryffindors cheer once more. Don't they ever get tire of cheering? What's worse is that their cheering seems to grow louder and louder the more First Years sit with them.

"Warrington, Cassius." "SLYTHERIN!"

Bless the Slytherins for their polite and fairly regal way of acceptance. It gives him a few more moments to recharge from the horror that is Gryffindor.

Sherlock looks at the three remaining students with dismay. Though the third one has brown hair, he can make out two red-haired students which are obviously—

"Weasley, Fred." "GRYFFINDOR!"

Deafening applause.

"Weasley, George." "GRYFFINDOR!"

Ear-shattering cheers.

Of course, Weasleys and Gryffindors. He's not surprised from the welcoming feedback.

Sherlock just wants to die from the noise... but thank God, the last one is being sorted, and by simply deducing the boy who seems to have no ambition whatsoever, and doesn't seem to be curious about the world around him, and doesn't seem to be a loud and just as averse to noise as Sherlock is... He can only make out that the boy will be in—

"Wiggins, Bill." "HUFFLEPUFF!" [7]

The sorting is now over.

"Thank God it's over!" Sherlock accidentally says out loud in the sudden silence, making everyone look at him. While others seem amused by his outburst—Professors Dumbledore, Flitwick, and McGonagall to be more precise, and some were not. John makes eye contact with him and he stops to look around.

 _Not good?_ he asks John through his mind.

 _Bit not good, yeah_ , John replies looking back at Sherlock after he looked at the silent room.

Sherlock looks around the room as well. He takes note of the devilish grin the twin Weasleys are giving him. He sees that girl who likes him catch his eyes and blush, looking away. Sherlock looks at the headmaster whose eyes twinkle.

"Let the feast begin," Dumbledore announces—much to Sherlock's satisfaction.

 **—oOo—**

All students mentioned in name are actual characters in the Harry Potter series in their respectable years.

[1] The Nimbus 2000 was released in 1991 so this is currently the fastest one yet.

[2] John was using accidental magic intentionally... basically he was intentionally using wandless magic but was unaware that he was doing wandless magic. He just summoned his magic and did it, you know?

[3] Written in Chapter Three. This girl would be Penelope Clearwater.

[4] Why is Sally Donovan a Gryffindor, you ask? Well, she's feisty, isn't she? She's not a Slytherin, although I can say that she is amazingly ambitious to work a "man's job" even though she is a woman. That is, in a way, a braver attitude... to work a "man's job" despite being a woman.

She doesn't hold her tongue on her opinions about other people. She's brave to tell what she thinks. Her attitude with Sherlock is not out of contempt (which makes people think why she should be a Slytherin #NotAllSlytherinsAreEvil), it is out of passion because she doesn't like being called an idiot by a man who doesn't even hold a rank—a mere consultant.

[5] I read Molly Hooper's blog and on the 27th of January in 2010, she confirms that she's 31 years old. There is a possibility that she was born in 1978. If her birthdate is before January 27, she is born in 1979. Still, being born in 1978 is much more likely.

Molly Hooper is definitely a Hufflepuff. Yes, she's intelligent and a brave woman, she places her friends first and is loyal to her friends, which is a beautiful Hufflepuff trait. She's also patient, incredibly caring, and modest. Also Molly knows what people need emotionally.

[6] Again, I'm part of the #NotAllSlytherinsAreEvil Club so don't think I placed Kitty Riley in Slytherin because she hurt Sherlock or whatever. From her first scene, we can see that she had tried to manipulate Sherlock into having an interview with her by showing her woman-ness (a very Irene Adler move, to be honest). She's willing to act like a fan for the sake of an interview because she's incredibly ambitious as a journalist.

[7] Okay, people won't think much of this but hear me out.

From what we've seen, Wiggins isn't an ambitious character. There's this vibe to him that makes us believe that he thinks he's already there—that he's very much content with his current state of living. So Slytherin is out of the question. He's not a Gryffindor either since he isn't truly an impulsive character either. He's brave but he's not willing-to-fight brave, you know what I mean?

Okay, Wiggins can be a Ravenclaw, too, because he is, as Sherlock said, an excellent chemist—being a drug user and all—but Ravenclaws pride themselves with knowledge and want to search for it. They want to know more, and want answers. Wiggins is intelligent but he doesn't seek for it.

Only thing left is Hufflepuff, which makes sense. He's incredibly loyal to Shezza (and I still find it cute that Wiggins still calls Sherlock "Shezza" in TLD) despite probably only knowing Sherlock in less than a month and when they had truly been acquainted when John went to the drug den to pick them up... and he was even patient with Sherlock, if we take note of the fact that he was trying to make Sherlock see sense in TLD and stayed by Sherlock the whole time.

Even in HLV, Wiggins is already there for Sherlock in the short amount of time they've been acquainted. Even managed to join with Sherlock with the other Holmeses at Christmas. Yeah, I think Wiggins is a Hufflepuff.


	11. (1989) Saluted by First Years

.

 _ **SUMMARY:**  
 **The rising famous child and highly well-known teenager are approached by first years who recognise them.**  
_

 _NOTES:  
_ _I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG.  
_ _I've just been so busy lately._

 **—oOo—**

"What?!" Sherlock finally snaps at the first year Gryffindors gawking at him at the Gryffindor Table. They visibly pale and look down on their plates upon his deathly glare.

" _Sherlock_ ," John warns, not even looking up from his book on Human Anatomy (Sherlock insisted he learn not only through wizarding means and John takes that advice to heart).

"What?!" Sherlock snaps at John, who is sitting across from him, at the same tone as he did to the First Years. He looks down on his own plate at John's glare—making everyone else raise their brows in surprise.

" _Be nice_ ," John tells him calmly but sternly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes in retaliation and continues to eat his breakfast—a rare occurrence, of course, but Sherlock is still a growing twelve-year old who eats a lot when he's not busy... and he's not particularly busy at the moment.

"M—Mr W—Wats—Watson, s—sir..."

John turns his head to see a black-haired boy standing right behind him, looking down on his feet with a red tint upon his face. He seems to have a small notebook and quill tucked in his arms. John recognises him as one of the First Year sorted into Gryffindor last night.

"Just John, please. Mr Watson is my father," John tells him with a friendly smile—even though the boy wouldn't see since his eyes are fixated on his own shoes.

"Er, y—yes, M—Mr—I mean—J—John..."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and finally speaks up after swallowing some pumpkin juice. "Oh for goodness' sake, just give him—"

" _Sherlock_ ," John scolds without looking at Sherlock behind him.

"But _John_ , he clearly—"

"Shut up."

Again, to everyone's utter amazement, Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms sulkily... and actually _shuts up_.

"So," John replies, not even glancing at the sulking Sherlock and the amazed look on everyone-else's faces, "tell me: what's your name, then?"

"K—Ken—Kenneth Towler, s—sir."

"You don't have to call me sir, Kenneth." John chuckles. "I'm not even a professor, or do I look like one?" John jokes in order to relieve Towler some of the tension visible on his body language.

Towler doesn't stop being nervous. "But it's a sign of respect, s—sir."

John pauses at this, his smile disappearing, and furrows his brows. "And what exactly did I do to gain great respect, Kenneth? Particularly, _yours_?" he asks, confused, trying to think why he wasn't just being _idolised_ as Sherlock would have probably said... but that he was being _respected_.

This time, it's Towler who looks at him confusedly, finally meeting his eyes. "Y—you saved my life... sir..."

John blinks profusely and looks at Kenneth as if he is seeing him for the first time.

"You were born in Godr—"

"—Godric's Hollow, yes, sir," Kenneth Towler replies, gaining more confidence.

"H—how did I save your life?" John asks quietly, mindful of some of the students listening in.

"I—I was three, sir... and my mum's a muggleborn and my dad's a muggle... Y—your dad was the one who told us to run... My dad managed to save many families by warning them about the... the Death Eaters...but h—he was k—killed when we were running... Mum tried her best to let me out of harm's way but—but someone's house was burning and it almost fell on us. S—she managed to get us away but we still got injured badly... I woke up when you were healing me... I didn't think you noticed..."

John sucks in a breath. "H—how are you so sure that it was me?"

"Because I watched you heal my mum, sir... and she thanked you."

"I might have looked differently."

Towler lets out a heavy breath. "You did, sir. You... You were younger and you... you had blood all over your hands and face." Both Towler and John suck in a breath at Towler's words. The latter shakes his head. "She said your name—my mum. John Watson, she told me. I saw you in the papers, too. You never forget the face of your saviour."

John blinks profusely, and seem to be even more nervous than Towler this time. "I—I'm sorry about your dad."

"I'm sorry about yours, too..." Towler says quietly.

"Your dad was a hero," John adds.

Towler nods. "He was... and so's yours... I— I'm just here to thank you, sir." Before John protests, he adds, "Some of the higher years told me not to bother but still... _thank you_ , _sir_."

John blinks once and Towler salutes him in the perfect military manner.

Sherlock deduces immediately that Towler's father was a part of the army—probably had that as an occupation before he died. That would explain his need to save other families as well as his own.

John salutes back in the same manner, making Towler smile as he leaves with his head raised with much more confidence. John, on the other hand, keeps his eyes were Towler had been standing, as if lost in his own memories.

"John?" Sherlock starts. "John?"

John shakes his head. "Eat your breakfast, Sherlock," he whispers, turning around to face his table and looking down on his plate with a small frown.

With that, Sherlock grumbles and continues his breakfast as he sulks and comments on trainee healers, making John smile. Sherlock hides his own smile—knowing John finds their own version of normalcy as a way of comfort.

"Anything planning for tonight, Sherlock?" John asks casually to remove the odd feeling in his chest from Towler's gratitude.

"Actually—"

"Because I can't go saving your life again tonight," he continues.

"What? Why?" Sherlock whines.

"As much as I want to go on a trek to the Forbidden Forest again to stumble across another beast or something, I can't."

At that, some of the Gryffindors nearby turn alert at what Sherlock is planning to do again. Since he's sitting with them today, they're at risk of losing points again—probably a _lot_ of points... After a year of experience, they know that nothing and no one can really stop Sherlock from doing anything.

"You can't go!" a nearby dark-skinned female first year with extremely curly hair exclaims in a horrified whisper.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asks.

"Sally Donovan," she says.

Sherlock glares at her. "Well, _Sally_ , why _can't_ I go?"

"Professor Dumbledore says no one's allowed to go there!" she argues.

"And I should just do what he says because...?"

"Because he's the headmaster and we're his students, so he has every right to tell us what to do and he told us that the forest is forbidden to all!"

"No, he told us that the forest is forbidden to all _students_ ," Sherlock points out.

"What?" the dark-skinned male first year with dreadlocks gasps. As Sherlock tilts his head at him, he says, "Lee Jordan... wait, but, aren't you a student, too?"

"Yes, but at night I'm a _legitimate_ researcher and a teacher," he explains.

"And a student," John argues.

"No, I renounce that title every time I walk out of the castle at night," Sherlock says, throwing a chip in his mouth.

"You can't just renounce your studentship!" John says.

"Wait, you're taking a PhD?" Sally gasps. [1]

"No," Sherlock says, glaring at her.

"But how are you a teacher?" Lee asks.

"I'm teaching myself. Does that not make you a teacher?" Sherlock asks.

"No, you're just learning by yourself," Sally says.

"I am learning from myself. I research and I learn. Where do you learn from? A teacher. Where did I learn the things I know? From my observation—from _me_. I teach myself. I'm a _teacher_ ," Sherlock says.

Everyone nearby looks like they tasted something sour from Sherlock's odd logic.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Sherlock says, "John Watson, I am impressed."

John hums, raising a brow at Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

"I never thought you have some Slytherin in you," he says, "or maybe you're spending too much time with me."

"I thought you're first and foremost a Ravenclaw?" John retorts.

"But I am also a Slytherin."

"Wouldn't you have _renounced_ your title?" he quips.

Sherlock claps his hands. "You're getting better."

"At what?" John asks as the others stay silent, confused.

"At changing the subject."

"I thought _you_ were the subject?"

"No, the subject is that you're not coming to the Forbidden Forest with me," Sherlock says. He shakes his head, pleased to be bested. "My Gryffindor is learning. You almost had me fooled. So, why can't you go?"

John sighs. "Because I need to talk to someone."

"Who?"

"Sherlock—"

"What, John?"

"Just... It's important, okay? I'll make it up to you, somehow... but I have to see someone." John makes sure he doesn't look at anyone as he exclaims this so Sherlock would still have no idea who he is talking about.

"Can't it wait?"

"Sherlock, I'm sorry but it's important... _to me_... Well, the Forbidden Forest is important to me, too, but this one should be addressed quickly, and immediately. The Forbidden Forest can wait for me for a long time."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "It's highly suspicious that you're not telling me what it is."

"Because, Sherlock, some things are just meant to be unknown, okay?"

Sherlock grumbles. "Fine."

John pretends he doesn't notice how hard Sherlock is stabbing his food. It's so childish that John actually cracks a smile at the reminder that Sherlock is an actual child as well.

 **—oOo—**

"You know, I don't like being followed," Sherlock says out loud in the abandoned corridor.

It's a few minutes until curfew but Sherlock has no intention of going back to any one of his private rooms. He turns around to look at the dark corridor, narrowing his eyes.

"It's dull, and contrary to popular belief, highly predictable," he says out loud.

Silence.

"If you're thinking of staying quiet to achieve me into believing that I may not be being followed after all, then you are wrong. I already know you're hiding behind the two armours nearest to the immaculate portrait of Sir Ocellus Dormiens [2] so there is no use in keeping in silence. Show yourselves or I will force you to," he says with confidence but not really.

He readies himself for defence, just in case, but it is highly unlikely since he felt that the students following him do not have strong magical cores but it doesn't hurt to be ready. For Sherlock, everyone is a potential attacker.

He hears a few whispers before—to his relief but not to his complete surprise—only two red-haired first years come out from armours of knights opposite of each other. Sherlock smirks.

"Sherlock Holmes," they both say at the same time.

"I'm Fred," one says.

"And I'm George," the other adds.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "No, you're not." The twins share a look. " _You're_ Fred," he points at the real Fred, "and _you're_ George. You may look the same but your magical core have some dissimilarities."

"How can you tell?" George asks curiously.

"I'm more sensitive with magic since I've been exposed to it since I was born."

"But we've been exposed to magic—" Fred starts.

"—since we were kids, too,—" George continues.

"—so why are you different?" they say in unison.

Sherlock tilts his head at the two, remembering that wizarding twins have a different kind of magical core.

"I was talking about magic from within myself and not just magic from my environment. Obviously, we're all purebloods here and so we are all equally exposed to magical families... but I never had any accidental magic because I've been using it _intently_ since I was born. No, that is not an exaggeration and yes, I can do wandless magic because of that."

"But wandless magic is almost nonexistent!" George says, impressed.

"The key word is _almost_ ," Sherlock answers, "and everyone has the perfect capability of using wandless magic but unfortunately, it is much easier to use a wand and the natural abilities of wandless magic start to weaken from lack of use."

"So, you're saying we can do wandless magic, too," Fred says.

"If you work and study hard enough."

Fred and George look at each other.

"How did you know we're pureblood?" George asks.

"Fred and George Weasley. You're the twin brothers of Bill and Charlie, aren't you?" Sherlock asks, raising his brow for confirmation.

"How did you know that?" George questions.

"Is it the hair?" Fred follows with a teasing smirk.

"That, and the fact that we were acquaintances before the Wizarding War," Sherlock answers.

"What?" they both ask at the same time. "How?"

"I remember red-haired twins wreaking havoc when I was younger."

"When did—"

"The Holmeses and Weasleys had met at some point. As for how often, I'm not sure... but I believe you have three older brothers, and two younger siblings but I have no clue of their gender. I just remember a lot of screaming from the toddler and the baby." [3]

They smirk and Sherlock immediately knows they are going to say something either choreographed or said so often it became a habit.

"Gred."

"Forge."

"At your service," they both say at the same time, bowing.

Definitely the latter.

"May I ask why you two are following me around at this time of the night? It's only the first day and you two are already breaking the rules," Sherlock questions.

"You're breaking—" Fred starts.

"—the rules, too," George finishes.

"So, you've decided to do the same in order to find out why I have the reputation that I have made in Hogwarts?" Sherlock deduces. He rolls his eyes at the smirking grins on their faces.

"You said you were going—"

"—to the Forbidden Forest and—"

"—we want to join you," they finish at the same time.

Sherlock grumbles. "Finishing each others' sentences may be extremely impressive, but I know your magical core and I have read twin-bonds before. It is easy to know that twins can almost read each others' minds. As much as I am astounded to see it this close since magical twins are rare, you don't have to show off your abilities to finish your sentences. It's just annoying."

The twins laugh.

"We do love pranking people," George says.

"Messing other people's heads is the number one best prank there is..." Fred continues.

"Making people stare at us in awe and wonder at the amazingness of our ability to talk like once person is a close second," George continues.

Sherlock mutters, "Well, that's, at least, something."

"So, can we join you?" Fred asks.

"No," Sherlock says.

"We can negotiate this," George suggests.

"No. You will have to follow me next time—when you are qualified to join me in the first place."

"Qualified how?" George asks.

"Do you have tests for us?" Fred asks with a gleam in his eyes.

"In a way. I shall be observing," Sherlock tells them before turning around and walking. He sighs when he hears two pairs of footsteps following behind him.

"What do we do?" Fred asks eagerly.

"What will you observe from us?" George follows.

"Maybe we can do something about it so we have a better chance at joining you," George says.

Sherlock stops and turns to look at them. "Now that will be telling."

"We want to know," George says.

Sherlock sighs. "What I do is dangerous—" he raises his index finger when both of them start to open their mouths to protest—"and I am sure the Gryffindor voice in your heads are telling you that danger is not something you care about and it is the exhilaration of the whole adventure that makes things better for you, it is not enough. Perhaps in the future, you may be a good addition but the danger is usually too great for inexperienced first years who had not much practice with wands. You will only slow me down if something arises. No, you cannot join me."

He starts to walk away before pausing once more.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder and tells them, "At least... Not right now... Better start studying, Messrs Fred and George Weasley."

Fred and George smirk at that and run back to the Gryffindor Common Room to map out on what to do to join Sherlock and John since the two already have a wild reputation in the school, pranking Filch plenty of times as well. Perhaps they could be good allies for the twin pranksters as well.

 **—oOo—**

A few hours later, Sherlock barges in the Gryffindor Common Room, panting, and sees John sitting by the fire with a book. The fifth year, along with almost every Gryffindor since none had gone back to bed yet, turns and his eyes widen at the sight of Sherlock covered in blood.

Everyone gasps in horror at the sight although some sigh afterwards, knowing that this may have been another one of his antics. A handful of people secretly hope that the blood on Sherlock is actually his and that he would actually be falling down any second, dead.

John and Sarah, who is on the other side of the room, both immediately stand up to look over at Sherlock and see whether he is injured or not.

"Stop, _stop_ ," he says as the two mutter, turning around Sherlock in circles as if it is a dance, and diagnose the perfectly okay second year. "I'm _fine_. The blood is not my own."

The Gryffindors start whispering about Sherlock murdering someone. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Then whose or what's is it?" John asks as he and Sarah stand up, confirming that Sherlock isn't injured.

Sherlock starts talking rapidly. "I came across a fight between two centaurs—fairly impressive brawling, might I say—strong techniques, cunning moves, and very resourceful indeed. I had the good fortune of seeing something. I suppose I could use a pensieve to further study the event. You know what? It could help you, too! We should watch it since you could learn more defence and—"

"Yes, yes, you can tell me all about that later, but I want to know how you got all that blood on you."

"Sadly, it ended with a decapitation of one of the centaurs but it wasn't anti-climatic as—"

" _Sherlock_! do you know how dangerous centaurs could be to strangers?" John practically yells.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I was at a perfect distance. Obviously. I've already read and searched about them, too, you know."

" _Freak_ ," one of the Gryffindors nearby mutters.

Sherlock accidentally flinches at the term but quickly recovers and composes himself. John, however, knows Sherlock far too long and it may not have been visible to anyone else but Sherlock is his best friend... He knows Sherlock flinching is rare in itself and the fact that it only happens when you've hit Sherlock's sore spot...

John glares daggers at him and he blinks at surprise when Sarah places a hand on his elbow, noticing that John was stepping forward and ready to fight, since he didn't even feel himself move. John looks down at the hand on his elbow and looks at Sarah briefly before both of them look away, blushing. She snatches her hand back almost immediately as if John was made of fire.

Shaking his head at the bloke who is now moving away from him, he turns to Sherlock once more.

"John, are you—?"

"How did this—" John gestures at Sherlock's state—"happen then?" he asks, clearing his throat to remove the unfinished business between him and Sarah as well as his slightly reducing anger.

"I, er—" Sherlock clears his throat, still unused to people defending him for a change—"you know I've always wanted to study more about decapitation of an intelligent being as well as about centaurs which books could not have covered since they are fiercely territorial. Lucky me, I got both in one go."

"You dissected a dead centaur?!" John actually yells. Everyone gasps at this information.

"John!" Sarah scolds.

"Do you have _any_ idea what would have happened if another centaur saw you studying about one of their dead? They'd kill you!" John continues, too angry to quiet down.

"Yes, I'm perfectly aware. But if it will make you feel any better, I never touched the centaur's corpse."

"Which means you were REALLY close when that centaur lost its bloody head then," John deduces.

"Why would you think that?" Sherlock asks curiously.

"Because if it lost its bloody head near you, the fountain of blood could have caused that!" John bellows. "Well?"

Sherlock keeps quiet.

"Oh my God!" John swears. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock!"

"I was behind a bush!" Sherlock says in defence.

"You told me you were in a far and safe distance!"

"No, I told you I was at a _perfect_ distance. I never said anything about it being far and safe. Although—" Sherlock raises a hand to stop John from protesting which was what he was about to do, "—it _was_ a safe spot. It was dark enough that neither of them would have seen me. Also—"

Sherlock goes over his pockets and takes out a small box. Before he thinks of making the box grow, he remembers that they have an audience and so he takes out his fake wand and uses _Engorgio_ to make the box larger. He then opens it to show several glass jars inside and shows him the one with the yellow flowers.

"What—?" John starts.

"This is why I was in my location in the first place. These are Evening Scented Primroses, John—very helpful with Potions and Muggle Medical uses. The fragrance is rather interesting, too. Having many of them surround me is enough to take my scent out from the noses of the centaurs. Besides, the two centaurs were too preoccupied with fighting to notice a little boy in the bushes—let alone for some intruders. It is an error on their part since anything could have attacked them and—"

" _They_ could have attacked _you_."

"I told you. I was perfectly hidden in the bushes."

"They could have still trampled on you! What if one of them lost balance and fell on you? What if one of their weapons accidentally went towards you and stabbed you?! What then?!"

"But that _didn't_ happen, so we're good."

"No, Sherlock. We're _not_ good. They still could have killed you!"

Sherlock scoffs and passes them by, "Ugh, John, you and your could-haves, your might-haves, your what-ifs. It happened. It's done. It passed by. It's ancient history. I was not killed. Nothing happened. I am not injured. I'm living. I'm fine. End of story."

As he walks through the Gryffindor Common Room, Sherlock almost smiles at how everyone moves away from him as if he is a rock sinking and they are the water.

"Sherlock, you should seriously start looking after yourself! Who knows what could happen if this kind of thing happens again and worse, if they spot you!?" John says, following Sherlock, uncaring of the audience they have.

"They won't."

"But what if they could?"

Sherlock snaps his fingers. "There it is again: _what if_."

"Stop talking about my supposed _paranoia_. I want you to answer me what would you do when it happens again but this time, _you_ get caught."

Sherlock sighs, flopping down on the armchair near the armchair, his usual seat. "Then it's simple: I'll fight back. You know I'm perfectly capable of that."

"That's not enough!"

"How is that not enough?"

"You're still one person!" John says, making sure not to say ' _child_ ' since Sherlock hates being one.

"I can do it."

"And if you were overpowered?"

Sherlock grumbles about what-ifs once more before looking back at John once more. "I can call for back-up," Sherlock says with a shrug.

"What if I was asleep when you call for back-up, huh? You tried doing that once, remember? I didn't wake up either," he argues.

"I don't just mean you," he says. "I have my connections."

"What connections?"

"Lemnir."

John chuckles humourlessly, placing his hands on his hips and looking down on Sherlock sternly. "I think you might be forgetting that, oh I don't know, that Lemnir is in bloody _England_ and we're in _bloody_ Scotland!"

"Language, John, there are first years around," Sherlock mocks.

"Eleven-year olds have better common sense than you!"

"Because my senses are unique and actually _useful_!"

"And you're not using them properly!" John pinches his nose, crossing his arms in exasperation before sighing and saying in a serious tone, "Sherlock, you should not toy with your life like that."

Sherlock breaks the anger as well and honestly tells him, "It was an accident. I told you: I was there for this—" he raises the glass jar with the Evening Scented Primrose once more—"and the centaurs were running towards me when I got there. I quickly hide in the bushes because if I ran, they'd have seen me, and I would have been shot with an arrow before I can say 'John'."

"Promise me one thing, Sherlock. Just one thing."

"What?"

"Never go to any dangerous places alone. Are we clear?"

Sherlock raises two fingers and salutes him. "Yes, sir."

John sighs. "Yeah, okay... I think I just aged ten years." He, then, starts walking away before Sarah moves closer to him and they start talking in the corner of the room.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sighs and doesn't bother to change despite smelling and covered in blood.

"Sherlock," someone says. He

Sherlock distinctly hears the Gryffindor Common Room door open once more and he hears, "Merlin," by the door.

The muttered name instantly reminds him of his own tabloid name _The New Merlin_ , and not to mention, the smug look on _the_ Merlin's face—or _Lemnir_ 's face, whenever he mentions the misfortune of being given his own friend's name and people using that as his title.

He opens one eye to see the Weasley twins walking towards him and grumbles, not really in the mood to talk to anyone since his talk with Sherlock had already drained him of his energy and excitement levels.

"What do you want?" Sherlock grumbles, closing both his eyes once more.

"Why are you covered in blood?" Fred asks.

"Two centaurs were fighting in the Forbidden Forest. I happened to be nearby when they came. One of them had their head cut off and everything sprayed on me."

Fred and George look at Sherlock's state with more horror at the realisation that the blood is 1) not Sherlock's, 2) a centaur's, 3) it came from the head of a centaur, 4) said centaur died of decapitation, and worst of all is 5) it's still fresh.

"Why aren't you cleaning yourself up?" George asks curiously.

Sherlock hums. "Yes, I probably should, shouldn't I?"

With that, he jumps off his seat and moves towards their dormitory but he pauses and turns at the Weasley twins.

"You came late," he says. "It's after curfew... but you two came here... _late_."

At that exact moment, they hear the door open and Professor McGonagall enters saying, "Messrs Fred and George Weasley!" He spots the two almost immediately. "You two will come to my office with me and we will have a nice chat." She gestures for the two to follow her and the two reluctantly do as well as she guides them to go out of the Common Room to head to the Headmaster.

Sherlock starts to walk towards his dormitory once more.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

Everyone, including Sherlock, winces at the voice of the one and only Minerva McGonagall, who had apparently still notice him.

"Evening, professor!" he says with an innocent smile.

 **—oOo—**

[1] "Studentship", in the UK, is usually referred to PhD scholarships.

[2] Ocellus means Eye in Latin. Dormiens mean Sleeping in Latin. I'm not sure what happens if they're together but basically I'm saying that one of the portraits that actually report to professors about wandering students is sleeping LMAO

[3] In this fic's seventh chapter. Sherlock mentions that he remembers meeting both Bill and Charlie when he was a child, ignoring the fact that he is still a child himself. Ron would have been over a year old. Ginny would have been a month or two-months old.


	12. (1989) The Common Room Nomad

.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _The most famous Second Year of Hogwarts interact with people in all four houses._**

 **—oOo—**

"WHAT HAPPENED HERE?!" the stoic Professor Minerva McGonagall screams in a panic, running over at the surprised Sherlock who is now looking at her innocently.

"Just an accident, professor," he replies calmly which doesn't seem to make things better.

Sighing to collect herself, she asks him whilst checking him over, "Who did this to you, Mr Holmes?"

"No one in particular, professor." Giving him a narrowed disbelieving and concerned look, he quickly adds, "I'm fine, professor, _really_. I was merely at the wrong place at the wrong time. This isn't my blood."

She pales at the last word. "Then whose blood is it?"

"Er—" Sherlock shifts uncomfortably—"from an unfortunate who had miscalculated an action."

Professor McGonagall narrows her eyes suspiciously this time. This is why Sherlock often reminds himself to be wary of the Gryffindor Head of House. She's too smart for his own good.

"I'm not the one who caused this blood either, professor. Don't worry. I'm not a murderer," Sherlock says—making everyone nearby sceptical even with the statement.

"I see... Tell me, Mr Holmes, what _exactly_ were you referring to when you said that you were at the _wrong place_ at the _wrong time_?" She raises a brow at the last parts with emphasis.

Sherlock licks his lips nervously—much to John's amusement—at that, trying not to scream at how screwed he is going to be.

"Well," he laughs at an attempt to play it cool, "funny you should mention that, professor. You see—"

"He was at the Forbidden Forest, professor," the Gryffindor prefect who had replaced John informs her.

Professor McGonagall's lips form a thin line. "Of course, he is," she says with a sigh, looking at Sherlock who is standing innocently with blood all over his body. "And on the very first day," she says, much more composed but also much more icily angry. "Mr Holmes, I cannot believe you are exhibiting this sort of behaviour. I expected much from you but your—"

"My family does not determine who I can and cannot be, professor. I am not my mother, and I am not my father... and I am most definitely _not_ Mycroft. No, just no. _Merlin_ , no," he says the last part with a laugh—as if it is the most ridiculous thing he has thought of.

Reassured that she had not offended the boy and he was merely warning her not to talk about them, she shakes her head. "Hurry and clean yourself up, Mr Holmes. After that, you will come to my office _immediately_ and we will go to the Hospital Wing. We'll let Madame Pomfrey have a look at you."

Sherlock snaps up at that. "But _professor_ —"

"No buts, Mr Holmes! Look at you! Who knows what kind of bacteria had entered your skin from the foreign blood. You need to get clean before you get infected by something we don't know."

"Professor, I can assure you: the centaur was perfectly healthy and—"

"A CENTAUR?!" the professor bellows and Sherlock grimaces at his slip-up whilst everyone winces—no matter how strong you are, you do _not_ want to get into Professor McGonagall's bad side. "Never, in my entire years have I encountered—I'll be in contact with your parents and know that _fifty points_ will be deducted from your chosen house today."

"But... but professor, I'm a _Gryffindor_ today," Sherlock says quietly, looking at everyone else.

Fred and George Weasley share a look at each other, surprised at the different kind of nervousness emitting from Sherlock.

Unfortunately, the professor seems to be too crossed to him to have noticed the change in atmosphere in the room. "I don't care if you're a Gryffindor today, Mr Holmes! You will also be serving detention with me for the next month every night until before curfew. Now go and wash this blood off of you this instant! Weasleys, come with me to my office."

As they walk to her office, Fred and George both unconsciously look at the uneasy Sherlock who seems to be shifting uncomfortably where he is standing, and looking around—almost in a panic.

Moving closer to Fred, George whispers, "What do you think that's all about?"

"I think I heard Bill and Charlie talking about him once..." Fred replies as they both look forwards as to not be caught staring at Sherlock by Sherlock himself. "You know that story where five students attacked that kid here at Hogwarts?"

"Yeah, it was all pretty hush-hush," George says.

"I think Bill and Charlie knew who it was..."

"...and it was Sherlock," George says.

Fred looks at George with uncertainty. "Could be... I don't know. They never really said his name."

George replies, "Seems like it though." Fred nods in answer.

The two look back at Sherlock who had run immediately as the three of them are nearing the office, away from all the Gryffindors.

When he sees that Professor McGonagall is almost completely gone from the Common Room, Sherlock immediately runs to his private dormitory before anyone catches him alone and he doesn't care if John is in the room.

John cannot defend him from everyone. Besides, what would happen to John's reputation if he keeps defending him? He'd be smashed into pieces, and worse, he'd be the next target... and obviously, Sherlock will not allow that to happen.

Cleaning up and slightly engrossed with how the blood slowly comes off of his body and down to the drain, he quickly fixes himself up.

At first, he was going to take a long time cleaning up since he may argue that the professor did not give him a specific amount of time on how quickly he should be but he decided not to anger her further. You do _not_ want to mess with Professor McGonagall.

Peering through the door, he checks to see if there are students around the area and he is disheartened to know that none of them had moved since he left the room to clean up.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door with his head raised high and steps out of the room.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock flinches violently at the arm around his shoulder but sighs in relief at the sight of Charlie—who is the owner of the arm around his shoulders—and John standing on his other side. He sighs when he sees the strained smiles on their faces and instantly knows why they are concerned about him.

Looking around to observe everyone else without the threat hanging on his shoulder, he realises that no one seems to be looking at him in the eye, not in shame but they seem to be restraining themselves and are not too happy—probably the doing of John and Charlie if they seem to be glaring at those who dare glare at Sherlock—the kind of glare Sherlock is used to.

The glare that promises a world of pain.

With a sigh, he lets the two escort him to the office while they all pretend that they do not know that they are merely escorting Sherlock to the office without being attacked.

"I screwed up," Sherlock whispers when they reach the door to the Head of House.

"Sherlock—" John starts but is cut off when Sherlock yanks open the door and enters without waiting to be called, having been called here enough times to be told by the professor not to bother to knock since he would be expected anyways when he is in trouble.

As the door slams to their face, John and Charlie face each other.

"He can't stay in Gryffindor," Charlie says. "I'm surprised you turned over being a prefect. We could stop others from harming him."

"I _have_ to _protect_ him. Look what happened today. Who knows what other things he could stumble across in the Forbidden Forest. When his mind is set on something, there's no stopping him." John sighs. "Doesn't care for his own well-being."

"He's a lonely kid, isn't he?" Charlie asks and John nods morosely. "I'm glad he has you, then."

"Still not enough though, is it? He has _only_ me."

"To him, you're worth thousands of them," Charlie says.

John grimaces. "That's too high-standard for me... I'm not that important."

Charlie places a hand on his shoulder. "You don't know that... and you're bloody important, John Watson. If you weren't, you wouldn't be one of my chasers now, would you?"

John chuckles. "Thanks, mate."

"No problem." He looks around. "We gotta watch over the little bugger. Make sure none of the lions hurt him."

John sighs. "So much for house unity... Well, I guess there is _some_ house unity concerning Sherlock."

"Really?" Charlie asks.

"Yeah, they all think he's a _freak_ ," he spits the last word angrily and Charlie flinches at the power of rage behind John's voice, "but he's just a kid who's different. Seriously... This is the Wizarding World. I mean, from the diverse amount of magical creatures, I would have thought different is normal."

"Guess not, I suppose," Charlie says. "It's why Sherlock's more special."

John laughs. "Try telling him that."

Charlie laughs as well. "Yeah, probably not a good idea. He'll tell me I'm being ridiculous. What an idiot."

 **—oOo—**

After yet another talk with McGonagall and why he should not be going to the Forbidden Forest, the professor seems to be too preoccupied with her new stalk of paperwork to notice that after dismissing her student, the said student is lingering by the door to crack it open to check if there are people in the common room.

Sighing at the amount of people, he walks in as nonchalantly as possible—which means he looks as bored as he wants others to think.

"Sherlock." He jumps up at Charlie Weasley beside him. "Hey, look, John was called in a meeting by Madame Pomfrey..."

"Yes?" he asks as they both walk towards his private room.

"I'm here to warn you: you _shouldn't_ be in the Gryffindor Common Room right now."

Sherlock stops walking and blinks. "Why?"

"Sherlock, they'll tear you to pieces without using magic. You know that."

Sighing and beginning to walk once more, he replies, "As much as I appreciate your warning, Weasley, I can handle myself and—"

"—And John will kill everyone who tries to lay a finger on you. Do you want him expelled, too?" Silence. "Look, Sherlock. I'm worried about you and I don't want to see you get hurt."

"You don't?"

Charlie tries not to take that comment at heart and continues, "No, Sherlock, I want you safe—both you and John. As a prefect and your friend, I'm telling you: for the sake of you and John, you have to stay away from the Gryffindors."

"But—"

"Please, Sherlock... for me and John."

A pause. Sherlock gives out a heavy breath. "Fine."

"Thank you."

They finally reach the door to his room and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and says, "I'll just go get my bag, then."

Charlie nods, grateful that Sherlock is taking his advice. "Alright, I'll wait."

"I'm not an invalid. I can—"

"I want to wait."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at Charlie but nods, shrugging. "Fine. Fine. Suit yourself."

With a sigh, Sherlock enters his room and quickly grabs a huge brown leather book with golden straps which belongs to Merli— _Lemnir_ —that he borrowed for advance spells. He sighs, knowing that he has more to learn and that this would help ease him with the use of nonverbal wandless spells. Merlin—woops— _Lemnir_ did say that Ancient Magic has usually been used with hands unlike Modern Magic which is usually used with wands. Having said that, Ancient Magic is much more difficult to master because it is more powerful and much wilder than wand-based magic.

Sherlock has to admit, though, that even _he_ can't use magic through his eyes, unlike M—Lemnir whose eyes turn gold when casting a spell without even raising a single limb. God, no wonder he is the most powerful wizard of all time.

After shoving the giant book in his bag, he grabs the Marauder's Map and the replica he has been doing (but failing). He, of course, made an exact replica through the Gemino Curse [1] but he'd feel better if he had completely replicated the actual map from scratch.

Noting that he doesn't really need anything else since tomorrow is Saturday anyway, he opens the door to see Charlie smiling at him encouragingly, making Sherlock even grumpier than usual.

"Charlie!" someone says behind them.

They both turn around to see another red-haired boy with a scowl on his face.

"What is it, Perce?" Charlie asks.

Sherlock nods in confirmation.

Percy Ignatius Weasley. For a thirteen-year old, he is already tall and his thin physique only emphasises his height. The vivid red hair and his many freckles make him an obvious Weasley but unlike his older brothers and his twin brothers, he is wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that only emphasises his difference with his action-based brothers. From the books in his left arm and the fact that the fingers in his right hand are wedged between the pages in the middle of the _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_ shows that he is a book of studious nature... The swot of the family.

"Your _brothers_ —" he nods pointedly at Fred and George who are both whistling innocently and leaning on the wall—"just did _this_." He raises his hand to show that it has completely transformed into a wolf's paw.

Sherlock instantly walks towards him to inspect the paw with claws. "Fascinating," he whispers. "This is advance magic for a bunch of eleven-year olds."

Charlie places a hand on Sherlock's head, making Sherlock scowl like the other boy. "You've done more advance magic at that age, Sherlock."

"But they are not _me_ ," he replies. Sherlock looks at the other boy whom he deduces is a Third Year already. "How did they do this to you?"

The boy looks at him intently before shaking his head as if he's just coming out of his head. "Sorry, what? Why are you—?" He starts to step back from the Second Year. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, now tell me: how did they apply this to you?"

"Charlie, what are you doing with him?" the boy asks.

"Percy, stop being a prat. He's just a kid, you know... so are you."

"He killed a Centaur," Percy whispers.

"No, he witnessed the _murder_ of a Centaur," Charlie corrects. Before Sherlock cuts in to tell him that it wasn't a murder and it actually was a dignified battle between two Centaurs, Charlie places a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"But—" Percy tries.

"Don't believe everything you hear, Percy."

"Where are you going, then?" he questions, observing the fact that Sherlock has a giant rucksack and the fact that they are right beside the Gryffindor Common Room.

"I'm escorting Sherlock to the Ravenclaws."

"Why?"

"Because Sherlock wants to be a Ravenclaw today."

"Well, you don't have to go with him!" Percy says.

"Yeah, Charlie," Fred cuts in, "he probably wants to go around the Forbidden Forest again, eh, Sherlock?"

"Not really on my list right now, no," Sherlock replies grumpily—just wanting to be alone for now.

Fred and George share a brief look at that.

"You alright, Sherlock?" George asks.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes and looking up at Charlie for a moment before passing the stare at all four of them. "If you don't mind, Weasleys, I shall be heading to my Common Room of the Day."

"Aren't you a Gryffindor today?" Fred asks.

"A few minutes ago, I was," Sherlock replies, going through the door and ignoring the irritated exclaim of the Lady in the Portrait for waking her up.

Sherlock takes out his Ravenclaw scarf from the pocket of his robes and wraps it around his neck.

"Wait! Sherlock, wait!" says Charlie, running up to the Second Year. "You can't just go out without supervision."

"Why not?" Sherlock asks. "Afraid I'll go back to the Forbidden Forest?"

"No, because if you were caught by Filch without a prefect or a professor with you, you'd get detention or whatever Filch has his mind on at the moment."

Sherlock laughs. "Yes, he wouldn't be too happy with me since I've been stealing his oil lamps."

"That was you?" Charlie asks.

Sherlock smirks. "Can't do that prank this year, though. It gets awfully boring."

"Hogwarts will be seeing a lot of pranks from now on, I suppose."

"Yes, your brothers are born pranksters now, aren't they? With me around, three pranksters walking through the halls of Hogwarts would make anyone look behind their shoulders every minute."

Charlie chuckles at that. They walk silently and slowly, as if they were walking through the park. Charlie, personally, does not like this slow-pace walking and is actually more used to being quick on his feat since he is a very action-based person but since he is walking with a Second Year who has smaller legs than he is, and that said kid seems to be enjoying a slow walk in the silent school.

To Charlie, though, it feels oddly uncomfortable to be in the silent corridors of the school since it is usually crowded with other students and professors, even. To have it completely silent and empty is...eerie... but glancing at the other boy, he seems to be at ease with it.

"Sherlock?" he asks. He receives a hum in reply. "You don't seem bothered by it."

"By what?"

"Seeing a Centaur get beheaded in front of you."

For a slight moment, Sherlock freezes in his steps but fortunately, Charlie seems to have missed it. "It was a surreal moment."

Charlie narrows his eyes at the child. "Nothing's surreal to you... which I find oddly..." his voice trails off.

"Wary of?" Sherlock fills in.

"Well, you're a child... A beheading shouldn't be something you... you know."

"No, I _don't_ know."

"It's not a pleasant sight."

"No, quite bloody and gory, in fact."

Charlie swears under his breath. "Merlin."

Sherlock smirks. "Merlin wouldn't be happy if you're cursing and using his name."

Clearly thinking he was joking, Charlie continues on. "Sherlock, if this... _event_ ever bothers you... you know you can talk to me, right?"

Sherlock sighs, as if he's going to humour the Seventh Year. "Yes, _okay_ , _Charlie_ , I will _talk_ to you if this _event_ ever _bothers_ me."

" _Sherlock_ ," he says, placing a hand on the said student's shoulder to stop them from walking, "I'm serious," he tells the boy dead in the eyes.

Sherlock nods. "I know."

 **—oOo—**

However, just as the door to the Ravenclaw Common Room closes behind him, he is met with most of the Ravenclaws staring at him with different amounts of looks. There is recognition of respect, awe, disgust, and fear from his fellow students and he is not surprised.

Just as the Ravenclaw Prefect approaches him warily, he raises a hand to stop her from continuing and says, "You don't think it's good for me to stay here."

She sighs. "Sorry, Sherlock. The First Years are—er..."

"Afraid of me," he continues for her.

She looks down on her feet with a sigh. "Y—yeah..."

"I'll be with the Hufflepuffs, then."

"We're really sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs in answer, opening the door once more, he jumps in the middle of the spiral staircase and casts, "Arresto Momentum" on himself before he hits the ground and so his velocity slows down so he wouldn't completely fall flat on the ground.

Removing his Ravenclaw scarf, he takes out his Hufflepuff scarf and wraps it around his neck despite yellow not being a colour he would normally wear.

With a sigh, he grabs the Marauder's Map from his rucksack to check if there are any nearby professors or Filch wandering around near his location so he would be able to go to the Hufflepuffs.

 **—oOo—**

Sherlock sighs.

"We're really sorry, Sherlock, but—"

"Yes, yes, I know. First years are the priority. We wouldn't want them uncomfortable. Yes, I know," he says irritably.

A nearby Hufflepuff girl asks, "You've heard of this before, haven't you?"

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asks, looking at the girl who is most likely a First Year. [2]

"You were kicked out of—er, I mean—you were told to—er..."

"You are wondering if I was told to move to another common room by the other houses," Sherlock says for her.

"Erm, yeah..." she replies rather awkwardly, looking down at her hands and wringing her wrists once before clasping them together.

"It doesn't matter. I'll be off to the Slytherins."

"Are you _mad_?" a familiar voice says behind him. Sherlock turns to see the familiar face of Mike Stamford. "Sleeping in the dorm with the Slytherins? They'll tear you to pieces!"

Nearby First Years frown at this since... shouldn't Sherlock Holmes be the supposed _Next Merlin_. If he is as great as everyone knew him to be, how could the Slytherins easily overcome him?

"Well, I don't really fancy sleeping in one of the professor's offices now, do I?" Sherlock says. "Spending the night in Professor Snape's office has been difficult enough on its own."

"You spent the night in Snape's office?" Mike asks.

"Well, I was going through his ingredients when he locked his office to go back to his private chambers. He has some highly advance security-based spell work. I asked him what technique he used and I got myself detention." Sherlock chuckles before sighing, removing his Hufflepuff scarf and replacing it with his Slytherin one. "Well, la'ers."

He crawls through the passageway to the door, ignoring the calls behind him, and sighs when he is out once more. With a dejected sigh, he walks towards the dungeon and heads to the Slytherin Common Room.

"Look who just came in, everyone! It's Sherlock _the New Merlin_ Holmes!" a student who is two or three years older than Sherlock announces icily just as he walks through the doors of the Common Room.

Going to the Slytherin Common Room as a last resort may be the worst decision yet, but then again, sleeping in the school kitchen may not be pleasant either. Thankfully, the First Years don't seem to be scared of him and are actually both in awe and disgust at the sight of him. Sherlock shakes his head and slowly goes towards the only door that leads to his private room with his head held high.

Before he reaches it, however, someone pulls him by the back of his collar and slams him to the wall.

The older student, whose identity Sherlock still doesn't know but familiar in facial features, gets in close to his face, tightening his hold on Sherlock's collar and choking him as he pushes his fist at Sherlock's throat.

"Let go of me," Sherlock asks calmly, only wanting to go to his room as quickly as possible.

"Why should I?" he asks in a sadistic manner.

"Slytherin loyalty," Sherlock chokes but convincingly sounds as if he is having trouble breathing.

"Look, Holmes, Snape may have told us to keep Slytherin loyalty in mind but that will never apply to you."

"I am every bit as Slytherin as you are," the twelve-year old tells him.

"Look around, Holmes!" the older student yells at his face. "You are _nothing_ like us! Don't be an idiot! You don't belong anywhere and everyone knows it."

"I was sorted in all four houses. I _belong_ everywhere," Sherlock quips.

A punch in the face hits him hard and in surprise, but he also gasps in relief at finally being able to breathe as he falls down on the ground at the impact. Gasps, other than Sherlock's, echo throughout the room but they quickly quieten when whoever-this-is turns around to glare at them. He turns around to look at Sherlock once more.

"You keep an eye open, Holmes. No one likes you here."

Sherlock tries to remove the blood on his lips as he replies, "It's a terrible idea to threat me so openly when there are many witnesses to condemn y—"

Another hit on the same side of his face.

"Keep quiet."

"I won't d—"

Another hit.

"Will you stop—"

Slap.

"Why? Does it hurt?" the older student taunts.

"No, my face simply feels uneven which—"

A hand wraps around Sherlock's throat and throws him to the ground and lands on his other side. A hit on the other side of his face.

"Is that better?" the older student asks.

"Well—"

Another hit.

And again.

And again.

Is that his foot?

And again.

And again.

And ag—

"Stop it, Glenn!" [3] a girl who is most likely the same age as Sherlock's new _friend_ pulls on _Glenn's_ arm.

"He got my sister expelled, Crizen!" [4]

 _Oh, he's related to one of THOSE people_ , Sherlock thinks, looking at Glenn intently, finally seeing the resemblance in facial features. Why this Glenn person didn't attack him last school year is a mystery.

Sherlock narrows his eye. Oh, nope. Ahhh, yes. This Glenn heavily relies on his older sister and he got depressed for the rest of the year. The Great Hall incident most probably discouraged him from going near him. Seeing his sister over the summer break most definitely reminded him of their separation and Sherlock's involvement of that predicament.

Before Sherlock says all of this out loud, the girl replies once more, "That doesn't mean you should go along hitting him out of nowhere."

 _Is she defending me?_ Sherlock tilts his head at the girl in question.

"Are you on this freak's side?" Glenn asks rather dangerously.

"Of course, not, but I don't think violence is the answer either. There are plenty of ways to make him feel like shit without hitting him in the face for it," Crizen states.

 _Ahhh, expecting someone other than John and Charlie would defend me is almost laughable_ , he thinks.

"What are you laughing about, freak?!" Glenn practically yells in his face, lifting him by the collar and slamming him on the wall once more.

Sherlock blinks with dark spots forming in front of his vision. His head falls slowly but he wills himself to stay awake for his dignity.

"Glenn!" Crizen screeches as well as other students.

"I don't know, Criz. I think it feels good to use your hands sometimes. Might be a bit Gryffindor of me but Merlin do I love seeing him wince from being hit by _me_."

"He could get you expelled, too."

"I'd like to see him try. He has no proof."

"Everyone's in the common room, you dolt."

A pause.

"He isn't worth destroying, Crizen. I'll just hit him hard enough to satisfy me."

"Not in front of the First Years, you moron," she whispers angrily.

"Fine."

Sherlock feels his legs fall underneath him and his head hits the ground hard but not hard enough to render him unconscious... unfortunately. Although, the ringing sound in his ear is awfully familiar from countless of beatings.

"Hey, Holmes? Holmes?" he hears. "Someone bring him to the Gryffindors. We can't open his private room."

"We'll go."

He feels himself be hauled upright by two people and he helps whoever-it-is-with-him walk him out. He distinctly hears the other two talk to each other the whole time whilst he struggles to stay conscious and listen in on the conversation.

"Why are we even helping him, Seb?"

"You know what he's capable of, Luce. He could be useful someday."

"Shhh, Holmes could hear you."

"At this state? Look at him. He's out of it. I reckon he was already beaten up before going to the Common Room."

"I don't like this freak."

"Who does?"

Knowing he is focused enough, Sherlock briefly glances at the two boys dragging him. Ahhh, two boys in his year—Sebastian Wilkes and Lucian Bole. Of course, neutrals who want to gain connections. They could be useful to Sherlock as much as he could be useful to them.

"H'ffl'p'ff," he whispers.

"Holmes?" Sebastian asks.

"He said Hufflepuff," Lucian repeats.

"Hufflepuff Common Room?" Sebastian asks and Sherlock nods once, not finding his voice. "Where the hell is that?" Sebastian asks Lucian and the latter shrugs in answer.

"K'tch'n," Sherlock slurs.

"Oh! Oh yeah, I know where that is," Lucian says and they change directions immediately.

As they walk, Sebastian asks why Lucian knows where the Hufflepuff Common Room is with Lucian replying about a snogging session with a Hufflepuff on the second month of their first year. Yes, they were the same age.

After a while, they reach the kitchen and go to the nook on the right side of the kitchen corridor. Sebastian and Lucian stare at the stack of barrels.

"It's a dead end," Sebastian says.

"No, the common room is hidden behind this somewhere. I forgot how they enter it because I was kinda dazed from all the snogging."

"Hey, Holmes, do you know what the password is?" Sebastian asks.

Sherlock's head bounces up and down in a sort of daze, his eyes fluttering as he battles himself to stay awake. "T'nks," he whispers. "Call T'nks... Sh's... Sh's n'ce..."

"Merlin, what now?" Lucian asks. "Should we leave the freak here?"

"We could knock?" Sebastian suggests.

Thankfully, their prayers are answered when two Seventh Year students hand-in-hand crawl out of one of the barrels and see the three Second Years.

"Oh Merlin," one of the two says.

"Holmes says to call Tonks or something," Sebastian informs them immediately.

"I'll go get her," she says, quickly entering the common room once more.

"I suppose I'll bring him in, then," the other girl says, taking Sherlock from the other two after thanking them. Awkwardly, she carries him—clearly unused with bloodied injured children (can you blame her?)—bringing him inside, noting how light the boy is.

The laughter dies down as soon as Sherlock was brought in and the fear from the First Years earlier dissipates at the sight of _the New Merlin_. Older students quickly swoop in to help Sherlock lie down on the couch. A male prefect runs to get Professor Sprout.

"No!" Sherlock yells with his hand stretched out to reach the running prefect and he hears some of the First Years hold their breath. "No pr'f'ss'rs," Sherlock says weakly, blinking away the dizziness with his hand falling beside him. The First Years sigh in relief.

"We have to call her, Holmes. She should know you got in a fight," the other prefect beside him says.

"W'sn't f'ght'ng," Sherlock replies defeatedly, sighing as he lets himself lie down on the couch without restraint—much to everyone's relief.

"Sherlock!" he hears two familiar voices cry out.

"Wotch'r, M'ke, T'nks," he says, raising a hand in greeting.

"Holy sh—what happened?" Mike asks.

"Two Slytherin boys brought him here and Holmes was wearing his Slytherin scarf," the girl who called Tonks says.

Sherlock looks up to see his bloodied Slytherin scarf which one of the Slytherins must have removed from his neck when he was struggling to breathe. It's good to know that some were still willing to help.

"Oh, so he was with the Slytherins when this happened," Tonks says darkly.

"I knew it!" Mike exclaims. "I knew this would happen! Didn't I say that this was a bad idea?!"

"Probably fought with them," a First Year suggests.

"Merlin! What happened here?!" the voice that could only be Professor Pomona Sprout's says. "Go get my supplies! Quickly!" she says to one of the prefects.

"Holmes got into a fight with some Slytherins, professor," someone says.

"On the first day, Holmes? I didn't expect you to—"

"I w'sn't f'ght'ng," Sherlock gasps weakly and almost desperately, hauling himself upright and wincing, making everyone else almost scream at him to go back down.

"What happened, then, dear?" she asks softly and sympathetically, kneeling in front of him with Tonks and Mike just beside her.

Sherlock looks away. Thankfully, his cheeks are bleeding enough to hide the reddening of his cheeks.

"He was beaten up," Tonks whispers angrily.

Sherlock's jaw clenches and before anyone says anything, he quickly snaps, "Yes, 'bviously. Good t' kn'w you lot 're sm'rt'r th'n you seem. I—" Sherlock winces at the pain on his body.

"Give him space! Quickly!" Professor Sprout yells as she slowly helps Sherlock lie down and starts checking on his wounds.

"Ch'ck my w'nd," Sherlock whispers.

"What?" Professor Sprout says.

"Wand," he says, shoving it towards Tonks who takes it and casts _Priori Incantatem_. The spell shows that the last spells Sherlock had casted were _Finite Incantatem_ [5] and _Accio_ [6].

"Kn'ckles," he says, showing them his knuckles as well.

"Yeah, he couldn't have been in a fight if his knuckles don't have any bruise in them from hitting someone else," Mike says. Sherlock nods.

"See? No d'tention f'r me," Sherlock says smiling before gasping and breathing heavily.

"This won't work. Bring him to Madame Pomfrey, immediately."

"NO!" Sherlock yells in a panic, making the Common Room shake for half a second as well as the students and professor occupying it. "No. I c'n h'ndle m'self."

A pause.

"Sherlock," Tonks starts warily, "we have to. You were beaten up."

"N't the f'rst time," Sherlock replies offhandedly. From the pain, he doesn't notice the silence nor the exchange of looks from each Hufflepuffs. "J'st leave m' 'lone."

"We can't leave you alone like this, Sherlock," Mike says.

"F'ne," Sherlock says, annoyed, standing up in pain and going to his room on his own.

"Merlin's beard," Professor Sprout exclaims.

Sherlock sniggers since he knows Merlin, in fact, doesn't usually have a beard and is actually in his twenties. The small distraction was enough for his legs to have minds of their own and make him fall. Tonks catches him as well as a nearby First Year Hufflepuff holding a small book.

"Bring him to the Hospital Wing. No buts, Holmes," he hears Professor Sprout say.

He doesn't seem to have a choice since his body won't work anyway.

"What's your name, kid?" Tonks asks the boy on Sherlock's other side.

"Cedric Diggory."

"Ahhh, Amos Diggory's son?"

"Yes... so you're _the_ Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, 'nd I get beat'n up so 'm n't all powerf'l 'nd scary. You're safe fr'm big bad Sherl'ck. Hoor'y."

"I don't think you're a dark lord in the making, Holmes."

"Oh? 'nd why not?" Sherlock asks as Mike takes his place in carrying Sherlock.

"You didn't fight back. You can probably kill them with a finger but you didn't," Cedric says, looking at Sherlock straight in the eyes.

"A very Hufflepuff trait, Sherlock," Mike adds.

Sherlock hums. "Maybe I j'st d'n't think th'y're w'rth the eff'rt," he argues.

Tonks looks at Sherlock's face up and down. "Yes, they do."

Sherlock raises a brow at her. "You don't seem the killing type."

"I am if they hurt my friends."

"Your fr'ends 're lucky, then," Sherlock says sighing, his eyes fluttering as his body shuts down slightly.

Mike quickly scoops up the light student whose eyes blink up once more.

Tonks looks at him seriously. "You earned my friendship and loyalty, Sherlock. You got to remember that."

"And I'm offering mine," Cedric says behind them as they walk out of the Common Room.

Sherlock stays silent the rest of the way.

 **—oOo—**

[1] The Gemino Curse is a spell used to duplicate an object, creating an exact replica of the target entity.

[2] Important character ( ͡°‿ʖ ͡°)

[3] Name of my bully in Year Five.

[4] One of those people who would rather ignore me. She hated me but she hated violence more.

[5] The same spell used in the Great Hall incident.

[6] Pre-Hogwarts. Just after he was given a wand... and the reason the Holmeses and Merlin (Lemnir) recommended to use a fake wand whilst using wandless magic instead.


	13. (1989) The Conflict and Epiphany

.

 ** _SUMMARY:_**  
 ** _Two students come to terms with their enlightenments._**

 _NOTES:_  
 _I AM SOOO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG SORRY SORRY SORRY_

 **—oOo—**

A small group of students from different houses walk through the corridors of Hogwarts but eventually stop by the door to the Hospital Wing—their initial destination—upon hearing an exchange of words. As they exchange looks, seeing the slight crack of the door, they maintain by the door to give the loud voices their privacy (although they are still human and still try to eavesdrop).

"You tell me who they bloody are, Sherlock, or I swear I will..."

"Will what...?"

"..."

" _What_ , John? You will _what_? Add more of my already present injuries?!"

"No! Why would you even think that I want to do that?!"

"Then tell me! What are you going to do? Finish your sentence!"

Silence.

Then they hear a quiet, "I thought so."

"Sherlock..."

"Go."

"Sherlock, please—"

"LEAVE!"

The students scramble away from their disrespectful eavesdropping position by the door and stand on the side as the door opens to see a distraught John—who doesn't even pay them any attention as he walks away from the Hospital Room.

Once more, they all share a look.

 **—oOo—  
** **MINUTES EARLIER**

Sherlock, who had been staring at the ceiling since he woke up a few hours ago, closes his eyes as he hears the familiar thudding of running footsteps— _John_ 's footsteps, to be more precise.

"Here we go," Sherlock whispers to himself.

"Sherlock!" John yells from the door, searching around the room wildly—not noticing that there is only one occupant in the whole Hospital Wing.

He runs to stand in front of the bed Sherlock is in with his hands on his hips—a habit Sherlock had once told him he does whenever he is in a stressful situation... and this is, _indeed_ , a stressful situation.

"Watson! Don't you yell in my hospital wing!" Madame Pomfrey scolds sternly with a firm but moderately volumed voice.

"Sorry, Madame Pomfrey," John says distractedly with his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face—assessing him from a distance.

Sherlock tries not to squirm. _Is this how people feel when I observe them?_ a voice in his mind says before he shakes it off, asking himself why he even cares in the first place.

"I assume you can handle my hospital wing for a few minutes without yelling, Watson?" Madame Pomfrey tells him.

John finally looks up at the matron, as if just realising she's there.

"Holmes is still asleep and Professor Sprout needs me for some students who got poisoned in the greenhouse," she explains. "I expect you'll act how I taught you," she says.

"Er, yeah, yeah," John says, sighing, nodding distractedly before shaking his head to try and clear out his cloudy mind. "I'll be more professional," John finally says clearly.

"You better, or someone might remove you from training," she says, giving him a pointed look.

John nods dejectedly in reply.

With that, after an exasperated sigh and a comment about students and explosive behaviours, she runs out of the hospital wing, eager to come back as soon as possible.

Yes, she trusts John with the healing of other students. She can proudly say that the boy is even a genius in the arts of healing and medicine... but the management of her wing? No, the boy still needs to work on that.

John watches Madame Pomfrey leave. When the door closes behind her, John sighs, raising a hand to rub his face with it before placing it back to his hip.

He looks down briefly, sighing, trying to calm himself from the excess adrenaline coursing through his veins from running from the Gryffindor Tower when Mike Stamford and Nymphadora Tonks had asked for him and Charlie Weasley—to tell them what just happened last night.

As the last of his adrenaline dies down, his whole body goes weak and he supports himself by placing both of his hands on the feet of the bed in front of Sherlock.

"I know you're awake, Sherlock," John tells the younger teen whose eyes are still closed. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock doesn't move. "I can tell these things, you know, and _no_ , I won't tell you _how_ I know it because you'd put it in that big head of yours and do all that you can to avoid doing it in the future... just so I could be more convinced of your fake unconsciousness."

Silence.

Finally, Sherlock sighs. "Maybe I just want to rest with my eyes closed," he replies quietly.

"Yeah, but you never rest with your eyes closed—"

"No."

"—and you wouldn't actually be relaxed enough to _rest_ after an attack."

"And there it is," Sherlock mutters with a sigh, finally opening his eyes to roll them.

" _Yes_ , _there it is_. How long will this keep going on until you finally ask for—"

Sherlock's pale bloodshot eyes catches his and his voice falters and the angry fierceness in them.

"I am not some—some _tattletale_ who hides behind his parents on a fight! Victorious battles are not won by hiding. You're a fighter and you're from Gryffindor. You, of all people, should know and understand this sort of thing."

"I may be a Gryffindor, Sherlock, and I am a fighter, but that's just it, innit? I'm a fighter and I know when to stop fighting in a battle when it will end up in a loss. Battles have retreats, Sherlock. Fights are not meant to be endured over and over and over again. Besides, you weren't even in a fight, were you? You were _beaten up_."

Sherlock turns his head to look away. John's cheeks redden in shame of his own words.

"You really should tell your parents about this, you know."

"And you are so _surprised_ that I still get attacked in my own town." Sherlock laughs.

John leans back from his position slightly at Sherlock's humourless tone—as if he is taken back at the words.

"Sherlock—"

"What happened when they found out you were the _Child War Hero_?"

John stands up straight and his hands clench on his sides at the name. Sherlock knows John may have been proud to have done such good deeds but the war was still an old wound of his.

"You know," John replies cooly.

"Enlighten me," Sherlock says.

John leans forward, as if conveying his dominance in the situation by literally towering over Sherlock—but they both know it isn't working.

"No, Sherlock, we're not playing this game."

He turns to walk a few paces and back—another habit Sherlock had pointed out in the past.

"I think I remember people still not stopping to hound you with questions even after publicly telling them, in the press, to leave you alone."

"Shut up, Sherlock. _Shut up_ ," John says, pointing a finger at the younger teen. "This is entirely different to what _this—_ " he gestures at Sherlock on the bed—"is. I was not left alone because I did something _good_ and—"

"—and I was not left alone because I do something _bad_..."

"Sherlock—"

"—or, at least, people's stupid version of what they think bad really is. _Different_ may be a better term," Sherlock starts, as if he is talking to himself instead of John. "Though there is an increase in the forms of invention. There are forming technology in the Muggle World that involves electricity and power combined with machinery never before seen by—"

" _Sherlock_ , stop it. We need to talk about this."

"Why?" Sherlock snaps as if he wasn't rambling a few moments ago.

" _Why_? Because _this_ is not bloody okay, and this has been going on for far too long. I'm not going to do nothing anymore, Sherlock. You need help."

"From _who_? Tell me! The Headmaster? The School Staff? Oh, for Hecate's sake [1], John, _look around you_. You _see_ but you do not _observe_!"

"Observe _what?_ "

"You said it yourself: _This has been going on for far too long_. If you think the Headmaster or the School Staff is going to help, then you must be stupider than I thought."

"They expelled—"

"They expelled students who had, for _years_ , exhibited obvious signs of violent actions to other students... and they were only expelled after an attempted murder through slow vivisection." Sherlock sneers before muttering under his breath, "I won't even begin to tell you about the murder at Hogwarts in June 13, 1943." [2]

"Murder at Hog— _what_?" John asks in confusion.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The point I'm trying to say is that there is _nothing_ to get out from this, John. Don't be an idiot."

"Idiot? There must be _something_! Your parents—Mycroft— _the Ministry_!"

"And you think one voice of a student with strange powerful capabilities—a student feared by the student body—a _student_ with a reputation of doing unconventional forms of magic—will be attended to by people in the Ministry? Do you think the family of said student will be listened to by anyone?" Sherlock laughs. "You really are a Half-Blood, aren't you?"

John steps back at the last sentence.

"Well, excuse me for trying to suggest ways to help you!"

"For _Merlin's sake_ , John, they _can't help me_."

"Then I will!"

"How?!"

"Something! Just tell me who they are!"

"They don't matter."

"I _will_ get to the bottom of this."

" _You_ can't do anything."

"I'll hunt them down."

"And what? Murder them?"

John's laboured breath echoes through the walls as a slight pause ensues. John moves closer and points at Sherlock.

Quietly and almost darkly, John almost growls out lowly, "You _tell me_ who they _bloody are_ , Sherlock, or I swear I will..." his voice cuts off from that as he swallows his own threat.

He straightens up, realising that he is threatening his best friend and promising his own version of pain. A wave of guilt courses through John, leaving him frightened of the darker side of him which comes out now and then.

"Will what?" Sherlock asks in a low voice (for a twelve-year old).

John stays silent, comprehending the realisation that he may have just crossed the line.

" _What_ , John?" Sherlock snaps, almost shouting. "You will _what_? Add more of my already present injuries?!"

"No!" he defends himself immediately. "Why would you even think that I want to do that?!"

 _Liar_ , a voice in his head whispers, _that's exactly what you were going to promise him earlier_.

"Then tell me! What are you going to do? Finish your sentence!"

John stays quiet because he knows Sherlock was right. He was threatening him. Some best friend he is.

Sherlock shakes his head and buries himself on his pillow, closing his eyes as if he is about to sleep. "I thought so," he mutters angrily.

John bites his lip before trying, "Sherlock..."

"Go," Sherlock says firmly.

"Sherlock, please—"

"LEAVE!"

Knowing when he is unwanted, John turns at a right angle and marches out of the hospital wing at that. His head spinning from a confrontation he did not expect to have. He walks in a sort of trance—delving deep in his head.

 _I'm becoming like my dad_ , John thinks to himself before shaking his head.

No, his father died a brave and noble soldier... He died doing the right thing... but that doesn't mean he was always a good man—throwing himself into alcohol to cope with the war, neglecting his wife, seeking more alcohol after a failed marriage, leaving his children behind, living in isolation, bouts of violence—excess vitality from being a part of the Wizarding War, he supposes.

As the _Child War Hero_ , is that how he will end up with? Does he truly have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder like real soldiers? Or is he just being an overdramatic angsty teenager?

 **—oOo—**

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes look up to see familiar faces and faces he's seen before but never really paid much attention to.

"Mike?" he asks groggily, from the potions or from his fight with John a few moments before, he wasn't sure. "Tonks?"

"Wotcher, Sherlock."

"Who are these?"

"Just some people who wants to wish you well, Sherlock," Tonks replies.

"Why?" Sherlock asks sceptically.

"People do believe in you, you know," she replies.

"For what?"

"Being the New Merlin."

"I don't even know what that means. Shouldn't Harry Potter be the New Merlin? He allegedly defeated Voldemort."

He sighs when most of the people had flinched at the Dark Lord's name.

"For goodness's sake, it's just a stupid nickname," he grumbles. "Names are important in the Wizarding World. Fear the name—strengthen the man. Voldemort strengthens from people's fear. Do you want him to be strong?"

"He's dead," one of them says.

"Don't believe everything you read," Sherlock sighs almost sleepily, not realising what he is saying.

"You think You-Know-Who is still out there?"

" _You-Know-Who_?" Sherlock asks, his eyes opening a little. "Who's that?" he pretends.

"...You know..." the same kid whispers.

"No, I don't," Sherlock insists, trying to look intimidating but failing since his eyes are dropping.

" _You-Know-Who_ , Sherlock," Tonks says. "You know— _Voldemort_ ," she says firmly—making the others flinch whilst making Sherlock smirk in approval.

"You-Know-Who," he repeats, chuckling to himself, almost delusional. "It's a stupid nickname for a nickname. Voldemort-Voldeschmort. He's just a bitter wizard."

The others fall silent, not really knowing how to respond to someone openly making jokes about the Dark Lord.

"Volde-snort," someone says. Sherlock squints his eyes to see the Weasley twins at the back of the small crowd around his bed.

He smirks. "Moldy-snort—better name. If he was back, I'd pay to see him just to say that to his face. No one's ever been pathetic enough to make fun of him to his face. It's either show him fear or resistance. Why not confuse him with idiotic name-calling—good old sassy comebacks. _That_ will throw him off the loop." He chuckles quietly, smiling at the ceiling.

"Yeah, well, he's dead now," Tonks replies.

Sherlock hums. "Is he now?" he asks, feeling his body growing heavy. "Whatever floats your boat," he says, trying to keep his eyes open.

"He needs his rest, guys," he hears Mike says, almost as if he is underwater before he falls unconscious.

 **—oOo—**

Sherlock watches as John enters the Hospital Wing once more, this time, the older student is wearing his usual uniform as a Trainee Healer, and it seems that he doesn't want to look at Sherlock in the eye.

Neither does Sherlock, who buries himself on "his" bed once more, and turns to look at the other side of the Hospital Wing and away from John's gaze.

His emotions got the better of him yesterday and he, though _understandably so_ , had a negative reaction to what John had said. He is used to being level-headed. It has always been his first trick—never give your opponents the upper-hand by seeing your emotions... but he has never seen John as an enemy now, has he? In fact, this is the first few times he had not seen someone as an enemy. This school is changing his perspective on other people...

...and he is not sure whether he likes it or not. What he _is_ sure of is that he does _not_ like being unsure of himself, and being uncomfortable around other people was never a part of his character... _and yet_.

"Oh good, you're here," Madame Pomfrey says once more in that level-headed tone Sherlock had often admired with the matron. "I need you to look after the Hospital Wing for a few minutes. I'm going to have to talk to Severus for new potions. I believe he still has classes right now. I'm sure there won't be problems like _last time_?" she asks pointedly.

Though he doesn't see John, he could practically see him straighten his spine with his shoulders rolling back, raising his chin up, and level his gaze with Madame Pomfrey's—the soldier.

"No, Madame Pomfrey," he replies.

"Good," she answers and he hears the quiet patter of her footsteps. "I won't be long," he hears her say before hearing the door finally close.

For a moment, he only hears silence—and he assumes John had been completely frozen the entire time before...

 _There it is_ , he thinks as he hears the pattern of how John shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He hears the small breath exhaled through John's mouth, and he hears his clothes shift in a way that makes him know that John had put his hands behind his back. John is steeling himself from something.

Footsteps.

And there he is—John, sitting on the bed beside Sherlock's, looking at him dead in the eye.

Sighing in defeat, Sherlock sits up with a small wince—which doesn't go undetected by John. His magic is failing him this time—probably because he is not feeling as good physically. The fight with John had taken a toll on him—no matter how small of a fight it is—and his magic is not quick with his healing as much as it should be.

Silence had been one of Sherlock's most favourite things but at this moment, he's not really a fan of it. He just wants his friend back. He doesn't want _this_.

He finally breaks it with, "I'd offer you tea but, well—" he gestures around.

"Look, Sherlock—"

"Stop," Sherlock whispers but John ignores him.

"—I will never understand what you're going through—"

"Seriously, save me the drama."

"—but you do understand that I worry sometimes—"

"Yes, yes, this is all well and we're good, _yay_."

"—well, most of the time, and it's usually because I forget that you're a kid."

"... ... ... _What_?" Sherlock asks confusedly.

John sighs. "That wasn't exactly what I—" he sighs—"look, you're fucking _twelve_ for goodness' sake but—"

"Language, John."

"—it's just... You're the wisest human being I have ever known, and sometimes even I can forget to see that you are just as much of a kid as anyone in this school."

A pause. "Like you, you mean?" Sherlock says.

"Y-yeah... Yeah, like me."

Sherlock sighs. "I know that I—"

John raises a hand. "Can you just let me speak? for now?" When Sherlock doesn't reply, he lets himself continue. "They're right, in a way—all of them. You're different than anyone in this school, and that's not a bad thing."

Sherlock tries hard not to roll his eyes at the cliché thought.

"But that's the thing about different, eh? People forget that you can be normal, too." From Sherlock's confused look, he continues, "You may be the _New Merlin_ or whatever, or a genius wizard that can probably change the whole wizarding society in the future but... for now... you're still a twelve-year old student attending a Boarding School... and people forget that. _I_ forget that, and I think _you_ forget that, too... sometimes."

"Not when I'm being beaten up by bullies," Sherlock accidentally mutters under his breath. He chastises himself as he actually sees John flinch at his comment. With that, he looks down at his hands to see them slightly shaking and clasps them together to give himself some _ground_. "Sorry," he whispers.

"No—no, it's—gods, Sherlock... it's exactly that, isn't it?"

"I don't really understand what you mean, John."

"When I _remember_ , you know? That you're not the... High King of Advance Magic—" Sherlock chuckles at the title—"or the actual genius wizard entitled as the _New Merlin_ of the Wizarding World or the Father of Magical Advancement—"

"Yes, yes, I'm brilliant, okay," Sherlock says impatiently and John actually laughs, some of the tension loosening.

"What I'm trying to say is that... remembering that you are _younger_ than I am— _three years_ younger... that you're not even a _teenager_ yet... It just hits home that I've raised you too much into a higher standard... and it scares the shit out of me when you get hurt because... _fuck_ , you're just _a kid_."

"I think I'm more than capable—"

"What would you think if you see a nine-year old on the bed in front of you after he got beaten up by a bunch of wizards?" he asks, "and that kid was more than capable?"

"I'd say get over it," Sherlock says without hesitation.

John decides to change tactics, using what he had observed from before. "What would you say if both Fred and George Weasley were in hospital beds, beaten up? Would you still say the same?" he asks.

That certainly shut Sherlock up.

"From what I heard from Charlie, the twins are amazing pranksters—could make anyone a fool of—"

"The three of us messed around with Moldy-snorts—I mean, _Voldemort_ 's name," Sherlock comments under his breath, making John think to ask about that in the future.

"Basically, you'd think they'd be free from harm. They're invincible... but then there they are, in the Hospital Wing, sporting several bruises and cuts, and what-not. It shatters you from the image you had made for them and reminds you of the other images you had thought of but disregarded. D'you know what I mean?"

Sherlock licks his lips. "I see..."

John sighs. "All I'm saying is: I worry when I am reminded."

Sherlock laughs. "No, you're saying you're a mother hen."

And John knew they were good...

 **—oOo—**

...until days after, he finally managed to get Sherlock to tell him parts of what had happened, and the fact that no one told him that they had all rejected Sherlock from sleeping in their dormitories, forcing Sherlock to go to the Slytherins. He can understand why Sherlock can't sleep in the Gryffindor's dormitory—Charlie had already explained why... but the others? For the sake of kids only a year younger than Sherlock? Attack-magnet _Sherlock Holmes_?

"John, stop it."

Sherlock sighs at John, who is being stared at since he is currently sitting with Sherlock in the Hufflepuff table and is glaring at everyone else who turns to look at both of them.

"I'm going to kill them," John says.

"And you'll get expelled, leaving me vulnerable to attacks," Sherlock finally snaps.

John stays quiet. Sherlock never admits of being attacked. He must be really getting on Sherlock's nerves if he's using his situation to stop him from doing something stupid. John finally deflates ever since he saw the state Sherlock is in.

"Sorry," John mutters.

Sherlock gestures off-handedly with the fork he holds in his left hand while his eyes are still stuck on a book he is holding in his right hand.

John has noticed that Sherlock had been eating more today—probably because he had become so physically weak that he had felt the need to have some sustenance as much as he needs now. Plus, Sherlock has a well-defined magical core from constant use.

Every time Sherlock gets physical harmed, his growing magical core acts up and heals him immediately. This would have been accidental magic to other wizards and witches but Sherlock had been using his magic as a child and had been intentionally using it through experimentation and reading. His form of magic is different—ancient, even—the same way the previous wizards had used their magic unlike modern wizards.

John had noticed since he had met the twelve-year old that this child is a genius and is way ahead of his own time. Sure, his older brother may be smarter than Sherlock but Sherlock has a unique way of seeing the world—a creativity worthy of the House of Ravenclaw.

But that also forms consequences. The extra magical power exhausts the boy every time he experiences pain. John could say that Sherlock's magic had also become a part of his white blood cells and nerve cells—a part of his immune and nervous system—to defend and heal himself from anything that affects the body.

If people get fevers while their blood cells fight off viruses, Sherlock gets physically weaker while his magic fights off dangers experienced by the body. If people are sad, they weaken—and so does Sherlock and his magic. So, Sherlock compensates for it by eating as much as he could. John doesn't blame him with that either—the food at Hogwarts is sooo good, it can make your body heal up quickly and cheer you up at the same time.

But Sherlock's eating habits are still systematical when he's in this state. John cannot really decipher it but he knows there is always a pattern—a pattern only Sherlock can make sense of.

There is some sense of humour at the fact that Sherlock is often found at the Hufflepuff table when he gets to his monstrous eating habits (since Hufflepuffs have the die-hard-eating reputation in the school). Then again, it's not so funny when he remembers that Sherlock is often with the Hufflepuffs after a beating because he is less likely to be beaten up with the Hufflepuffs and it is a rather good environment after an unpleasant ordeal.

John sighs, hating the fact that he had grown used to seeing Sherlock so beaten up that he already knows Sherlock's habit after a good beating.

"Shut up," Sherlock tells him.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

"Oh yeah? Thinking about what?"

"Me."

"Yeah, how humble of you."

"You've been staring at me for more than a minute—either you are planning my murder, are in love with me, or are worrying yourself thin. I think the first and last ones are your usuals but for now, the last one is more likely."

"Maybe I'm planning to murder you because you didn't tell me about all of this sooner," John says, gesturing around.

"Or maybe you're helplessly in love with me and you just don't want to admit it yet." After John's deathly glare, Sherlock rolls his eyes, finally putting his book down and looking at him. " _Please_ , spare me another lecture on what-could-haves. It's ancient history. Now, we move on."

"What about learning from history?" John asks.

"Yes, I learned of a new person to add on my list to avoid, and added new people to add on my list of who to contact. Future contacts—very important."

"That's a Slytherin trait, right there," John comments.

Sherlock grumbles. "I don't like it when I have common traits with Mycroft."

"You _are_ brothers, you know?"

"And I hate being reminded of the fact," Sherlock grumbles, acting like a twelve-year old as he sulkily takes a mouthful of pancakes to stuff in his mouth.

"Any word from him about this problem?" John asks.

"No. He's not my minder," Sherlock grumbles.

 _Could have fooled me_ , John thinks to himself, not noticing the extra-weight on his head.

 _I heard that_ , Sherlock says in his mind.

 _Get the fucking bloody hell out of my bleeding mind, Sherlock_.

 _You're certainly more... swear-y in your mind._

 _Don't you fucking start._

 _Why are you so violent in your head?_

 _Because I AM a violent person but I don't act like it._

 _Really? You beat up a lot of people, too, you know._

 _Only because they deserve it._

Accidentally and unfortunately for both of them, they had both forgotten what Sherlock had said a year ago—that the mind is like a door, and the one who opens it makes more effort than the one on the other side... but that's just it. The mind is a door. One can go either way.

And John hears Sherlock think, _That's what the bullies believe, too._

John blinks multiple times, feeling horror creep up his skin. He didn't manage to hide the thought, _Oh fuck, I'm a bully, too._

"Sherlock..." he whispers, turning to look at a stricken Sherlock whose body language clearly screams, 'I fucked up.'

"I didn't mean to—" Sherlock starts but John raises a hand.

"I—I understand."

"You stuttered. You clearly don't."

"I understand."

"Now, you're just repeating yourself."

"Stop assessing what I say."

"Stop being so obvious."

"That's not my fault."

"Yes, it is."

Silence.

"You're not a bully," Sherlock whispers. John stays quiet.

Sighing, Sherlock turns to look at John who wouldn't dare look at him, focusing on the food on his plate instead.

 _John, look at me_ , Sherlock thinks to John. _John, LOOK AT ME!_

"Ow! Ow! Bloody fuck!" John accidentally shouts, grabbing at his head.

"John! Language!" a Hufflepuff prefect says.

"Ten points from Gryffindor!" a nearby professor says but John doesn't give a flying fuck.

 _Still not going to look at me?_ Sherlock asks in his head and so John finally looks at him dead in the eye.

"You... are _not_... a _bully_ ," Sherlock says, saying the words with emphasis. "I'd know," he whispers, "and believe me, you're not."

"...Sherlock..."

"Just... Stop _beating_ yourself _up_. You're only a bully to yourself, John," Sherlock says seriously and oddly softly.

Nevertheless, it doesn't stop John from flinching at Sherlock's words.

Before John actually says something, everyone looks up—including Sherlock, smiling widely. The flock of owls entering the halls of Hogwarts will never cease to amaze John, even if it had been five years since he came in the school.

"Roäc! Thorondor!" Sherlock says gleefully once more.

One of the moments John believes Sherlock actually acts his age is when the latter sees his familiars—Roäc the Raven and Thorondor the Eagle.

"What do you have for me this time?" he asks, taking a small envelope from Mycroft—probably to inform him that the parents are still unaware of the going-ons of this school.

"Can I?" John asks, taking the rolled up newspaper Thorondor had had.

When Sherlock hums in reply, John slowly unties the knot and opens the newspaper, grimacing at one of the headlines.

"Poor sod," John whispers as he sees one of the news on the front page.

"Who is?" Sherlock asks disinterestedly but John doesn't seem to notice, too absorbed with the story.

"Just a boy... found dead... at Durmstrang."

The last part seems to have ignited something in Sherlock's brain and he snaps his attention from petting Thorondor to looking at John, making Roäc squawk in surprise at the quickness of the movement.

"Can I see that?" Sherlock asks, taking the newspapers without waiting for John's reply.

"Oi! I was reading that!" John exclaims but only grumbles when Sherlock ignores him.

 **A COLD WATER TRAGEDY:**  
 **Durmstrang student dead in lake**

"Interesting," Sherlock mutters.

"What is?" John asks.

"Durmstrang Institute has top-levels secrecy. No one outside of their establishment has any idea of their whereabouts. No one could pinpoint their location on a map—something I admire quite highly. One of the things I admire the most is the fact that even welcomed visitors are forced to comply to be obliviated so they wouldn't know how they got there or how they left. We really need to have that much security. This is why we can be easily targeted by Death Eaters—"

" _Sherlock_."

"What?"

John looks around and the students nearest to them are eyeing them warily. "Talking about Durmstrang, Death Eaters, and targetting..."

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock shakes his head. "That doesn't matter now, but what matters is: No one knows where Durmstrang is... and yet..."

"They mentioned a lake."

"Precisely."

"Could have been some random lake."

"Read the article again, John."

Carl Powers, born in 1978, was a  
champion swimmer and was found dead  
in a mountain lake by nearby muggles  
and classmates of the deceased. The  
eleven-year-old student of Durmstrang  
Institute, wearing swimmable clothing  
when found, was quickly reported to  
muggle policemen which had taken the  
body of the young boy to their  
investigation. Aurors were quickly called  
upon by Professor Igor Karkaroff,  
Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, to  
take care of the matter at hand.

Before the muggle policemen were  
obliviated by the Aurors, they had  
reported that Carl Powers and some  
students were swimming by the lake  
when Powers began to have had a fit. By  
the time the nearby wandering muggles  
had arrived to help the students take  
Powers out of the water, it was too late.  
Only the shirt, trousers, coat, and hidden  
wand of the young boy were found on  
the shore of the lake where the body was  
found.

Aurors were insisted to report the matter,  
however, by the family of the deceased  
since Powers was a champion swimmer  
and the family did not believe that the  
boy would have drowned in accident with  
his skills.

However, reports had shown that Carl  
Powers's wand was not used for any  
defensive nor offensive spells. The body  
was also detected and had found no  
curses, hexes, jinxes, nor any magical  
instances of the boy's drowning.

It is truly a tragic accident and may the  
Powers family may find peace from Carl  
Powers's passing.

"I don't really get it," John says.

Sherlock sighs. "One: cold water. Two: _mountain_ lake. Three: _swimmable_ mountain lake. Four: _coats_. It's all there. You just have to piece it together. It is most likely a Scandinavian Institute, judging by the location and the weather patterns mentioned as well as some of the patterns I had read from previous—hold on a minute."

Sherlock snatches the paper once more from John.

"Sherlock?" John asks.

Sherlock mutters something.

"What?" John asks him, confused.

"They found him wearing swimmable clothes in the middle of the lake, and yet they found his clothes and wand on the shores of the lake."

"So...?"

"It said _shirt, trousers, coat, and wand_ , John!" Sherlock says.

"I really don't get what you're saying."

"John, listen to me... where are his _shoes_?" Sherlock asks.

 **—oOo—**

[1] Hecate is the Greek goddess of magic, sorcery, witchcraft, necromancy, etc.

I have noticed that their spells were derived from Greek and Latin, I can only assume that that is where magic had come from in the first place... until it spread around the globe... I mean, Greece ain't that far from Britain.

I don't think it is their practiced religion anymore but there are still pureblood families (like Sherlock's) who are more aware of the Full History of Magic, passed down from generation to generation...

[2] The Strange Death of Myrtle Warren.


End file.
